But first, allow her to explain, to unwind this spindlestory of a phantasmagoric notion that she was ‘drawn here’ to this place, somehow. Perhaps, by some impalpable, alien tractor beam all moony eyed and dreamy pallored, but sadly absentee, was the celebratory probing. Splinter-thin legs and coruscate with moisture, she lowers those fishnet heels onto the unlucky floorboard, jabs them in. Her hands sprawl, spidering the cusps of her pale knees, neatly folded, oh-so decent. Such an ingenue. Once she is posed, leaning both her attention and herself towards the glowering driver, she half-simpers, half-meaning in her smile. They are schoolyard sidekicks smoking in the girls’ room, two shades of black lipstick. One black as midnight, the other black as pitch. Both blacker than the foulest vvitch.
“I didn’t intentionally move here out of some tragic hunger for rustic landscapes and disquieting boredom… “ she halts; there’s a swift, thrumming pause in this wind-whipped tincan, in which she actually, as if rehearsed (but it wasn’t) taps the point of her chin with a halloween painted fingertip not once, but twice. Her eyes rove upward, fastening to nowhere in particular. Had she moved here for the tedium? She wasn’t entirely sure anymore. Maybe she had, and so. “... okay, so maybe I did. A little. And to hide. To outrun that disorder, the disorder that’s glued to me, not me to it. But it’s just followed me anyway. Double, double, toil and trouble, bitch.”
A knot of smoke is inhaled, wolf-fur grey and thin, blown out.