Re: The Bohemian/The Companion
It only took a few seconds for Phoenix’s eyes to sweep over the woman, from the unimaginative austerity of her hairstyle down to the skirt of her dress where it disappeared from view under the table. It was plenty of time. Phoenix was an artist, and their eyes were attuned to gobble up details like crumbs of toast and margarine to a starving person. The orange spike of their eyeliner shifted as they grinned, lips and jaw disjointed with the flush of wine that warmed like a flame.
Steadying their hand with an unrelenting obstinance, they lifted the teacup and drained the last dregs of wine, only to place it back on the tablecloth and wring the neck of the bottle between their stained fingers once again. “Sorry about the mess,” they offered, when they noticed the way that the woman’s mouth had blanched. Upended the bottle and poured another cup of wine. “Seems to follow me like a shadow.”
Could shadows cast shadows? Phoenix thought about painting shades of black on black, layered umbra on canvas until it was too thick to dry and the wooden frame warped. This was more interesting a consideration than the drunken man being led away like a little kid who’d been caught being bad. Amateur.