Re: Gotham: Russ & Imogen
She would tell him, if she knew that his gaze was taking age into account, that sometimes life didn't show on the skin. But she didn't know, and she was unaware of her own movements in the way that water flows without thinking a thing about flowing. Comfortable, capable, and that was born of walkabouts and travels. She was pale and wan and insubstantial, but she'd seen breathtaking brilliance in places the world over, and they were all etched upon her certainty and living in the linger limb of stretched legs with a purpose.
When he said he'd buy her a drink, she asked for something new, and she looked from the bartender to him, wondering if he'd suggest something. Gotham was just another place on the canvas of the world, and she wanted to taste the things here. If she wanted to bring her own preconceptions, she'd as well stayed home.
"Why don't people in bars like God?" she asked, naivete shining through hazel and warring with the long sweep of legs in snug, too-worn denim. "Is it because good people don't come here?" She didn't believe it, and that was clear as the odd mix of accents that made up her talking.
She began to play, and people turned, undecided and torn about the song in the wake of bad things; bad things made people spiritual, and she'd seen that hundreds of times over. "Me too."