Re: (After)life: Nel L & Lear L
The woman on the couch looked over as Nel joined her on the island of furniture that floated in the ocean of the open layout. She smiled and it managed to be droll, amused even. She tipped her head in a slight spill of those curls on bare shoulder. So, this was Nel. The woman let her gaze track downward, over the pantsuit in its gray-blue Glenurquhart check, over tortoiseshell buttons, from top to ankle over thigh, then back up. She was attractive, thin, older—maybe 50, but if so, then barely. Her gaze was unflinching. She was the right person, the woman on the couch thought. She was familiar to her, even if she couldn't have said that before seeing her in person. She was positive, too, that there was something more to her, to Nel, and it was almost palpable in the air that hung between them bright with summer sun.
Dark gaze was too lingering to be platonic (or normal or polite), and the woman cocked her head in the other direction as she lifted the cigarette to her bow-shaped lips. For a moment, she looked to Nel's throat, then let her eyes buoy.
"Do you have a light?" Her own accent had a Scandanavian hint, though it was extremely subtle. Expectantly, she uncrossed legs she'd folded at the ankle, and she sat forward, knees spreading wide in too-big slacks. The shirt gaped from her chest, but she didn't have shame enough to fix that. She leaned toward, but not over, the coffee table that separated them. Black brows lifted, and she waited again. The woman stared, her interest like that of a cat, distant but intent. "Do you know who I am?"