“Do I know anybody?” she aims the hightailed question into the negligible (but galvanic) space that separates them, staring low-lidded at the smooth degree of her cohorts chin, at her unblemished complexion. Quite frankly, a little envious of the moonmaid look. Her own wicked flesh often far too on a ghastly scale of halloween pale these days. As if she’d slithered into the husk of some loosed, graveyard seraph that chips to life when the gloaming spreads over the headstones, sepulchral and vivid.
“If I did know anybody, why the hell would I want any of those bitches knowing about it? Even if I tell you, it’s as good as whispering it into one of their hairy, ancient fucking ears.” here finally, arrives the familiar catclaws and the simmering contortion of the Mac in Russian Red upperlip, the feline one-time flare of nostrils, the speaking thru hollywood-white teeth. These are, of course, obvious indications of her nettled ire. Sure, she could probably just tell Zo, and she likely wouldn’t go tell it on the (vvitch)mountain, but fuck. She wanted to keep some things to herself. Of course, as soon as the pause came, yawning between them, she felt urged to fill it. There were things she didn't want her ex-husband knowing, but if people knew that, they could use it against her.
Plus, she was bound to find out eventually, “My ex-husband lives here.” she can't help it, she laughs.