Re: In Person: Steve/Sharon
Steve turned his gaze, with some reservation, to the slimy slickness of the East River as it shined under the endless light of Brooklyn. The sun hadn't yet set, so the sky smeared a thick painter's purple near the angry blot of the sun, burning off into gold and orange. It was hard to believe, in that natural beauty that tangled with concrete and the waste of a city so large—and so destroyed, buildings and rubble like broken teeth in a bloody mouth, that earlier Steve had been arguing under artificial lights between two plastic ferns with a middle-aged white man with jowls and angry eyebrows. His artistic leaning had his hand twitching for pastels and oils to play with color on paper, but Sharon, and the white press of her tank top to skin, kept his feet firmly planted where they were on old, hard wood.
He blushed, eyelashes sweeping low as he looked down at the beer sweating in his hand.
"Thank you," he mumbled, still very distracted by the nearness of her to him, as striking as she was in white. Steve bent his beer toward Sharon's as her neared for a clink, and he looked up just in time to catch the hook of her glance glimmering with Carter patented mischief. Steve smiled, he lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long drink.
The beer was cold (thank you, ice bucket) and slid down the back of his throat soothingly. It offset some of the heat gathering under Steve's collar, and he appreciated that. He licked his lips and shot the woman next to him a sidelong glance—but only before squinting off toward the river again.
"So," he said simply, thinking on that red heel. "How did you like the interview?"