Re: Janus A/Eames - log
Eames might not have bothered much with detail but he noticed when detail that didn't belong to him layered over his own. The blonde dug in a pocket that existed in a dress that clung so closely to the line of her hips that it looked as if any pocket must have been tiny, and rolled the edge of a poker-chip along the length of her finger and thumb. Most minds allowed for a little disorder in the margins, darling. Dirty laundry scattered around, that kind of thing. Guilt, bad choices, indecision, they all swirled around and left bits of themselves in plain sight. Eames' mind was regimented as a battle-company of soldiers and he noticed detail.
"The real stuff, as you put it, might be a secret," the blonde said absently, paying far more attention to the stage than she had been previously. A tiny furrow dug into the space between her brows, it wasn't exactly a pretty expression, but it reminded you of vexed women on bridges in Paris and unwanted proposals. She wasn't made for grand displays of emotion, that was rather the point of her. "It depends, darling."
Eames was interested in the explanation rather more than the blonde looked. "You change how you feel, how?" she leaned into the words with intent. The blonde was stood at the rail now, and the blush-colored sparkles began to blur. It was like blinking slowly, on the verge of falling asleep, one moment the blonde was the blonde and the look upward from heels to head began in shiny black leather and a very fitted suit and a middle-height, middling-handsome man stood there without some of Eames' own breadth but with a very straight bearing.
"Do you change inside or outside?" The fans on stage abruptly stopped swirling.