Re: the reunion; cas & mat
Nice try, Ted Bundy. This isn’t her first murder rodeo. “Good,” she recites, against her will. “Let’s go reveling like Dionysus and Ariadne.” Wait, what?
Shattering delicate threads of whatever needlessly tense interstice had tautened between them, she prowls up closer. That glistening blackfang of a marooned vehicle she narrows at once she stops, is too upscale, too swank to be anyone else’s but his. It blights this inferior neighborhood with its silky couture. What a gloater. Why is she so attracted to him. She leans onto it, resting ornately at the vehicles smooth shoulder for balance, unfastening something at a vivid notch of her spine. While chthonian apparel remains wholly on her person, she, with the gymnasium finesse of a former fucking cheerleader, guides out a la perla bra from her sleeve. She crams it into the lambskin mouth of a Mary Poppins McQueen purse. Might as well be comfortable, if / when she gets murdered again.
Next, the serrated heels are interred, to the unanimous relief of all ground, everywhere. Avoidant of the germy loam that is contact with Main Street cement, her shoes are gladly traded out with more comfortable replacements, shed into the very same purse. Having regained minor composure of the useless organ in her chest that continues cosseting in its cardiac cartwheels, at this point, she’s just daring herself.
“Yay or nay?” she inquires, coming off, done with her subtle transmutational wardrobe change, approaching. “I have traumas to suppress.”