“You smug little catshit,” she cantillates once the cackles calm, like an anchorite, holy holy. She doles out one final gush of lotion, lined up right into the narrow palm-trench of her frenemies allegorical (& literal) heartline. A bisected branch, threadbare and spinose, is that heartline of Zo’s, in that slender, dove-pale hand. This vvitch doesn’t really believe in palmistry, but wasn’t that intriguing, she notes, hemmed in sharp, side-smirk, that hers was so fucked?
Taking the cigarette from its vice between her cuspids, out of an unspoken courtesy, she starts rolling down the window.
Of course, she was pushing her grin against her teeth, tightening for dear life, don’t smile. Don’t smile. She basically called you a cow, but, generally, banter is what she lives for; thrives in it, the way nightblooming flowers unfurl at the first hint of dusk. She was inhuming the lotion, studying the spotless, milky neon face of the driver, wishing she could read her thoughts (quite frankly, somewhat glad she couldn’t) when she asks, “So what troubling, chaotic shit do you have planned? Surely, you didn’t pick me up to go on a scenic drive thru this dreary shithole?”