Re: the reunion; cas & mat
“Fucking hideous? I think you mispronounced awesome.” She peers languidly down at her balletic ankle, encapsulated warmly with well-crafted, expensive footwear. But the key, the key, the mercury bloodbeat of the key!
Something so kittenish vents from the petite monstres throat that it seems too fictional to have borne from this venomous blade honed into womanform. A parade of moods washes over her face. It goes something like this.
The Maserati key catches the nightglint of an overhead halfmoon. It gambits in his upwelled palm, an atavistic relic stolen from another, wilder time. Her fingers spirit over its silvery corpse. There’s a faintly maniacal, but subdued, innocuous laugh, reminiscent of a well-loved cartoon characters. What she feels is ineffable in this moment; she could crumble like a sugarcookie with sweet, sweet joy. So pleased is she that he’s willing to swim in this silky denial with her. Why can’t everybody be like him? Her feral smile radiates. She expertly snatches the key from his palm before he can change his mind, careful not to touch skin. For palm-to-palm is holy palmers kiss. Obviously she wants to drive. You know, even though she’s tipsy. “I’ll play Alfred!” she says, skimming over to the passenger’s side and theatrically opening the door. “Get in, your majesty. Or… Mr. Andrews, sir. Whatever kink he and you have going on. I don't judge.”