Cat wasn't exactly in the mood to go out, and that was precisely why she was going. Oh, she liked Isaiah quite a bit, and it wasn't that she had any complaints about the company. No, you see, Cat had been licking her wounds. She'd spent the hours since the party holed up in the little house behind the bar. She didn't even make the drive to the city, where hedonism lived in excess, and where she could drape herself in feel-better diamonds. No, she slept, and she berated herself, and she let her self-esteem tank.
And then, eventually, she picked herself up.
Skin-tight jeans, a black tunic, stilettos, and her hair was pulled back and curling along her shoulders. True to her word, she walked to the diner. No point in pulling out the bike or the hemi, and the weather was mild. It was in the 70s at night, and Cat didn't even feel the exertion. She'd been climbing buildings in heels by the time she hit puberty, and this flat stretch of sidewalk was nothing special.
The diner wasn't anything special, either. But this wasn't that kind of night. Hedonism? Didn't come with a blue-plate special. This was about facing the world, walls back in place and nothing to see here. The woman that pushed open the door of the diner, she was confidence with red lips and a feline sway. Hello, world. She had this covered.