Re: christmas lights log: mars & lear
When Mars wanted something, even the flippant little nothing sort of things, there wasn't a whole lot that got in her way. Already damned to an early grave, she'd accepted this as her last act, her swan song. So no, Mars didn't slow down, and she didn't say sorry, and she wouldn't be coming to Jesus in her last hours, whenever those may come. She was going to do exactly what she wanted, no matter the ill-advised company or all of the cautionary tales that lined her cliffhanger. Let it be known that Little Red would bite the heads off of anybody who stood in her way or pleaded with yield sign eyes. Because in her case, it wasn't so much a death wish as a death certainty. It was a kind of acceptance all it's own, and it was liberating not to ask for permission for every little damn thing like good girls were supposed to. Fuck being a good girl.
So yeah, she leaned toward the center display on his dashboard to fiddle with the buttons that controlled the music, stopping only after something she recognized from one Hallmark moviethon or another gently, volume lowered, filled the speakers. Might as well be festive if it was one of her final Christmases.
When he offered the ass end of that cigarette to her, bleached stick of tobacco still captive between his bleached stick fingers, Mars shifted. Pulling a knee under her skirt, she turned to balance an elbow on the center console on her way to leaning way toward the spread of his hand and the tar-streaked filter of his whatever-brand smoke. When he asked about her missing him, she looked up at him mid-lean. The fawn-pelt brown of her eyes may have been lost in the dark when she said, "A little bit less than a lot."
Just because she wasn't supposed to smoke didn't mean that she never, ever had. When she pulled from the cigarette, it was a schoolgirl's puff, small and not quite inhaled.