Re: (After)life: Nel L & Lear L
Nel knew she was being looked over, but she didn't mind. She just watched the woman on the opposite couch, and her own expression was something that resembled a sinner's mild amusement at a church picnic on a pious Sunday. She didn't think this woman was a messenger, because messengers seemed to get right to the point, and they were easily and quickly bribed or killed. The dark-haired woman wasn't a messenger, no, but she was something. For starters, Nel would be willing to bet her best Leica Leitz that this person wasn't normally a person. No, wait—Nel looked a little longer, a little more carefully, and she leaned back and her smile grew millimeters that were nearly impossible to notice if you didn't know her well; this dark-haired person wasn't normally a woman—that was the final decision Nel came to.
She said nothing. She merely watched as that dark gaze lingered with some semblance of knowing, and Nel didn't mind that either. Looking was her bread and butter. Nel was very good at looking, and her gaze flickered with unhurried lethargy from cigarette to bow-shaped mouth. She could do this all day, and the skitter of dark gaze to the column of her pale throat didn't bother Nel in the slightest.
"Norwegian?" she finally asked, even as she lifted her hip and pulled a lighter from her back pocket. She leaned forward at the waist, and she put the lighter on the coffee table and then slid it over. The lighter was Vietnam era and touch-smooth, and Nel sat back after that slide of metal against tabletop. Her icy gaze visited spread thighs and gaping shirt, and it only solidified her decision from earlier—not a woman.
"Should I?" Was the response given, which, when paired with the soft smile on Nel's mouth, really said nothing at all.