Re: log: dylan & max
"Thoreau. Let me guess? A writer." She smiled drunkenly, because she knew that took absolutely no skill, that guess, given his sentence.
At the beginning, she thought the hotel was teaching them lessons about themselves, shit that they didn't want to look at normally. But now she just went with it, and she didn't think about it anymore. Figuring it out wasn't going to change anything. It was a waste of energy better reserved for survival. As for healing, she didn't think much about that either. She was conditioned to withstand shit normal people couldn't. Deep ops training was really torture endurance in disguise, and she didn't even give herself credit for that anymore.
She watched the couple leave, and she allowed herself a moment of drunken consideration about their lives. Then his fingers touched her hair, and she looked over without turning her head, all peripheral perusal and curiosity in her dark and still largely unfocused gaze.
She smiled when he said they should go to the beach; she didn't actually believe it would happen. People said stuff like that when they were wasted, and there was the safety of being able to claim boozy forgetfulness if it ever came to a head. "Somewhere with really blue water, and a hotel that opens right onto the sand. White sand," she added quickly after, not the hard-packed desert shit.
She reached for her checkered basket, and she took a few stabs at cutting the burger with fingers that lacked coordination. She laughed, husky-drunk and too loud, and she looked over at him and grinned.