Re: [Jukebox - Sparrow & Open]
The song she picked was slow, but sexy, and she watched as the record dropped into place. She liked old things. She wondered, sometimes, if she'd always liked old things. She wondered why she liked them, and if someone she'd loved had introduced her to things old and covered in gravedust. She wondered and wondered, but only until the music began. Then, she smiled, the ringleted blonde with the expression that was a little far-off. The music made her want to move, and she swayed soft and plump hips beneath pre-lived white.
It was movement that the song gave to her, and it was movement that made her look to her side, to the other jukebox and the man standing there. She turned, white-covered hip against the jukebox and open assessment as she looked him over with heavy lids and shameless stormclouds rolling in. It was curiosity, only that, but she didn't hide it. She wasn't made for confessions in dark rooms with grates and old men breathing heavily. Her worship was out in the open, bold, and her perusal too was the same, softly bold and warm.
Make it a good one, he'd said, and she smiled those guileless eyes at him, lips warm and soft pink. "Does this one count as a good one?" Unaccented, she moved a little closer, to the edge of the jukebox she'd claimed as her own. "Your accent is pretty. It's from England. I've seen movies," she explained. She wasn't sure if she'd ever left the United States, and she didn't think so, but she collected old, old postcards from places that sounded like his accent did.