December 03, 2002.12.03.02. - five alarm [rune-bridie-decker][north jersey, condo]
(rune)
Sometime in the middle of the night - sometime in the middle of the afternoon - sometime in the middle of the next evening (she cannot tell. It’s dark outside, and the alarm clock on the single bedside table flashes angry red, insists it’s 12:00 over and over again, has insisted that it’s 12:00 for the last ten minutes. Clearly the plug was dislodged from the wall socket at some point, and just as clearly, no one bothered to reset the time. It’s surprising enough that either of them had the presence of mind to plug it back in. Perhaps it was a last practical gesture before falling into pleasantly exhausted sleep. Perhaps they only briefly dislodged the plug.) Rune awakens to the breathing silence of her darkened room.It’s warm as a womb in here. Warm as a womb, and the air is redolent with scent. His scent, her scent, their scents, inevitably entwined. Each is a distinctive thread, bound together by the heady remnants of blood (her crimson nails, his tanned skin) and sweat and sex into a distinctive and by now familiar double-helix.
Usually, she’s up and in the shower shortly after she wakes up, indulging her still aching body in the full-throttle pound of steaming water upon bare skin. Tonight, she’s content to linger beside him, content to shift closer to him, and watch the slow rise and fall of his chest, the faint movement of his eyes beneath shielding lids as he dreams, content to watch the snaking path of her pale hand as it rests upon his chest, tracing the bars of ribs beneath muscle and flesh, as it rides the rhythm of his breath, lazy as a hawk gliding on a thermal spiraling into the vast expanse of the impossibly blue sky.
Tonight - for this one night - she’s content.
(james)
his scent
her scent
their scents
blood and sweat and sex and satiation
it brings a dream inspired smile across sleeping lipsstrong arms tighten
muscle contracting against her back as her move closer is drawn closer
warmth seeping between them in some osmotic process
and maybe, somewhere, deep inside, that wamrth calls to him
it creeps into his subconscious like a chime
(you missed her)and the smile widens
the embrace tightens
dark eyes peek from behind barely slitting lashes that watch the red blinking against the ceiling
head tilting to bury lips against tangled black hair"Tell me about California?"
not your trip
not what you did
just anything you want to tell mehe's never been there
California to him is only pictures in books and stories in the newspaper(rune)
"California." The word is a murmured caress of sound, accompanied by a warm wash of breath across his skin, a half-dreaming sound breathed into the safe quiet dark of their strange cocoon, wrapped in the warmth of the waterbed, cradled in the depression created by their mutual weight. His smile widens, the embrace tightens, and her arm drifts further across his chest mirroring the stretch of his own arm around her back until her fingers are splayed his opposite flank, exploring the lean planes of flesh and muscle and bone absently and intently at once. Her cheek is pressed against his chest, her eyes focused on the slow play of her fingers upon his skin, and her smile - her answering, unselfconscious smile - is hidden against his flesh. He cannot see her smile, but he can feel the movement of it upon his skin, it grows in her cheek and curves over parting lips, it flavors her tone, low and smooth and (strange to think it) content. "California."There is much she could tell him about California: the long wild nights, hot, that stretched into sundrenched days, hotter. The intense camaraderie of pack - young and fresh and vibrant and idealistic and hungry for the future, the cacaphony of languages and voices and scents and cultures, the lazy polluted urban sprawl that she owned once, the drugs and parties and sex and warparties and triumphs and glory and savagery of it all. And more: death and silver and fire and betrayal and death and death and death. California.
If a shadow passes across her brow, it passes quickly. If memory darkens her eyes, it drifts on. For the moment, the memories - the tangled knot of confusing memories and contradictory emotions - seem hazy and indistinct, as if she had glimpsed them in passing, only, as if they had not been branded, sizzling and white-hot, into the dark corners of her soul.
"It's warm there. It never gets cold like it does here, there's none of this gray endless horror of autumn and winter and bitter winds and fucking cold. Could've left the windows out practically year-round there, and you'd've only noticed it becuase it was so damn hot without the air conditioner. You can't see the sky for anything - the haze and pollution obscures it all - but the vast spread of city lights are all the stars you need. And the sunsets," at last, a slow glance upward, shifting until her chin rests against his chest and her dark hair spills across his flesh like night-spun silk. Half-lidded gaze sweeps across his features, and her smile creeps sly. "...and the shopping."
(james)
he doesn't see the flicker of memory
he doesn't know about the darkest secrets that plague her past and her consciousness
(don't they plague us all)
and perhaps if he even had some clue
some inkling of what his question brought
would it matter?
or would it only serve, if finally spoken between them, to bring them closer?
this same, shared painthat's playing with fire, James, they'd say you're too close already
fingertips trail the lines of muscle over her back
feeling the ripple of ribs beneath
resting soft on the long line of blades
digits curling to soft scrape of nail
he concentrates instead on the smile he knows is there
even if he can't see it eitherit brings that silly grin back again
"Shopping, huh? Dare I even ask what you brought home....?"
he noted the mazed pile of bags and boxes littering the living room
...... but it was the mention of home that made him pause(rune)
The same, shared pain: and more, and worse. He is consumed with guilt over the deaths he caused, the loss he carved into his own soul, the sins he perpetrated in the name of his faith, but she is infinitely more callous than he is. It was not death, nor even outward betrayal that sent her spinning across the continent, but something else, something different, something darker, a needle of guilt she can never quite grasp, because she can never quite think of it, not rationally, not when she's waking and warm and wrapped in his arms, not ever again. Not why did they fall, but why didn't he take me with him. Not why did I have to kill them, but would I have gone (I would have gone) if he had asked."Shopping," the word is slurred infinitely, delicious, utter visceral delight threading through her voice. The mention of home makes him pause, but not Rune, not now that's she on to one of her favorite subjects. Teeth snap to graze his skin, a slow sure tease, before she lifts her head and flashes him a naughty little grin. "I don't think you dare ask, because I'd tell you all about it. Rodeo Drive, Neiman Marcus, store after designer store, and the shoes. The fucking shoes. I'll be ready when summer comes around again. The fucking shoes and the cheap lingerie - Frederick's of Hollywood is so much more fun in person than over the 'net. Maybe I'll show you what I bought someday, hmmm? Some fucking fashion show."
(james)
"Kinky..... want me to get the camera?"a scandalous tease shining in dark eyes in the darker room
a smile that teases over shadows lips
blinking clock suddenly turning her room into the red light districthe would have run across the continent if he could
but something held him back
they destroyed his world
he. destroyed. them.
so why did he go back to the battleground?
so why did he shed tears over creatures.... monsters.... that never would have for himand as she gazes up at him
with that sly, smug smile
the self-satisfaction of the cat that had the canary
of the Walker that has the shoes and cheap lingerie
fingers find their way to glance across the curve of cheekbone
crawling into her hair
rough palm against perfect cheek"Strangely..... do I want to know all about it."
(bridie o'ceile)
Just another night in candyland: frigid in tempreture and darker than ink. Where you get urban sprawl, you will find a warren of the unsavory types without fail, time and time again. They were the plague of the 90's, although maybe some had the idealistic veiw of robbing the rich to give to the poor (themselves). Like a pack of wolves spreading out to canvas the area and stalk down the prey, they blended into their urban surroundings without much ado and watching... and waited... till they found that ripe apple of Eden to pluck from the unsuspecting. It was late Monday night - respectable citizens would be at home with their loved ones leaving the night to shift workers, street scum and the monsters under the bed.A condo: the target.. Underground parking: to keep eyes off the activities. A BMW: Praise the Lord.
(bridie)
Some people became just another part of the urban decay; blending in as if they were a mere extension of their surroundings and not autonomous beings. They were of this class: fixtures that no one really ever paid attention to. Until it was too late, that is. But, maybe, they may have met their match tonight.One (visible) on look-out towards the street. One on look-out towards the condos. One sidling up to a precious BMW with all the latest gadgets'n'gizmos in hand to work wonders on the cars' systems.
(bridie)
Work the system. Work it over. Careful now. No permanent damage to the goods. Careful. Gently. Careful. Almost... almost... FUCK.The scream of the BMW alarm pierces the dark night and although it was a common enough occurance in modern day society, it was bound to get a certain someone's attention. Their beloved was being boosted.
(rune)
"You say that now," she murmurs - inside, in the darkened condo, in the bland, expensive neighborhood, no lights gleaming through the shades pulled across windows recently replaced to give the whole damn enterprise an air of normalcy and reassure the poor neighbors (somewhat) that things were back to something like normal amongst their volatile neighbors - with her (it's a four letter word, never spoken, never quite considered, but close enough, real enough for all that) one. Though hardly respectable. "...but I think you might get bored after the four hour play-by-play, hmmm?"Sly, smug, cat-n-canary, cat-n-cream, Walker-n-shoes-n-lingerie-baby, the smile widens, lifting smooth cheek against rough palm, widens and darkens as it twists upward with the beginning of wicked wicked promise articulated as much by the sudden assertive tension in her body slung lean and bare against his own. Pale thigh drawing upward, skin smooth against skin, torso twisting easy and lazy as a sun-simmering snake to claim his all over again.
"...so maybe you better get that camera - " And then. And then. the fucking. alarm. goes. off. The lean warm tension of her figure changes from serpentine to whip-taut and she rises with a vertiable snarl of outrage: off the bed in half-a-second, on her feet and diving through a pile of discarded clothing for a robe or anything, settling on a t-shirt and boxers to be tugged on and tumbled into as she storms down the stairs.
Someone's beloved was being boosted. Her beloved was being boosted. Not. a. good. thing.
The door to 22-A swings open - swings open, flies open, thunders open, and the tall, half-dressed woman storms down the stairs, tangled dark hair whipping around her face in the sudden blast of winter wind. She was hard-pressed enough to grab enough clothing to make her semi-decent, and didn't have time to bother with a weapon. It's all good though: sometimes her body is all the weapon she needs.
"What. the. fuck. is going on here?"
(james)
whatever attention had focused on her
whatever part of her that completely filled his world
the wicked red red smile
the sly and cruel intentions
it fractures from the alarm's piercing scream
attention whipping towards the window
he knows the sound of her car's alarmbreath huffs in a low growl
the Gnawer moves
sidling out from beneath her
(how he loathes to be away from her touch)
while it's her hand that opens the door of her room
it's four paws that thunder down the stairs behind the Walker
(he's not about to run out into the street stark naked)
rough pads skid on the linoleumthe shepardy looking animal that explodes out of the condo behind the half-dressed woman makes police dogs look anorexic and gaunt
hackles bristling up above his shoulders
tongue curling between bared teeth
the series of savage barks punctuating her stinging words
the animal looks like it needs but a gesture to charge forth and tear into those that dare mar her (HER) world
already halfway between her and those by the car(bridie)
Like cockroaches, those on look-out scatter as if the bathroom light had been flicked on without warning. They blend. They meld. Most of them disappear into the night, becoming unseen appendages of a decaying society all over again.For the one by the BMW it isn't such an easy task: mud and openess do not lead to a quick and dextrous exit. Crouching down on the far side the car, just out of vantage point for the half-cocked, irate woman to see, she smacks her forehead and grumbles something unitelligable to herself. She was getting too old for this shit - she should be operating the crews, not running with the kids.
But what is done, is done. Time to play out an exit (of some sort/in some way). Thusly, she squats down, gadgets'n'bobbets well hidden on her person, and waits. For that one moment to present itself.
(rune)
Just out of Rune's vantage point for the moment, is Bridie: but only for a moment. The tall woman pauses midway down the stairs only for half-a-moment, long enough to snarl her outrage at whoever dared to touch her goddamned car (it's a good thing Bridie didn't damage the finish. Rune only needs one damn excuse to go completely off the handle.), long enough to allow the beast bursting from the doors to pass her on the concrete steps, long enough to assure herself that the car was still in place, intact and not yet moving, but not long enough for the frigid cold of the concrete steps make its way from her bare feet to her seething mind.The rest of the steps, then, taken two at a time in the animals wake, a heedless charge forward to the muddy ( - the fuck? - ) Beemer parked in front of the condo.
There - fucking - there. That's as close as Rune comes to articulate thought as she storms closer to the figure crouched on the leeside of the little convertible and reaches out to grab the woman by her collar, to try to drag her bodily up from her safe crouch.
(bridie)
The woman - some years older than Rune - doesn't fight against being hauled to her feet. She merely lifts her leather gloved hands up on either side, hands spread, to indicate she wasn't armed. Just another citizen out at night, of course. There was a small 13 tattooed under her left eye beside two tear drops, obscured by jet black hair."Dehgud yerra stungun auntya?"
Her voice was so thickly accented and the barely intelligble to the ear. It was English. Or Irish. Or Scottish. Maybe a little of all of them thrown together into a hodge-podge mix that was at odds at the flame of bloodline that was riddled across her face, her stance, her body. Fenrir. It was Fenrir.
(james)
the beast. is. huge.
(it must be one of those foreign mix-breeds)
bristling winter coat adding to its size
seemingly feeding of its.... uh.... owner's, yea.... anger
jaws snap at the air as the theif is hauled from behind the carjust. one. trigger.
he needs even less than Rune to go off the handle
Fenrir. Or. Not......Fenrir?
(rune)
"Fucking hell."The words barely register. It's not the woman's words - nor even her lifting hands (unarmed) that stays Rune from further violence (the way she slings the woman visciously forward toward the curb, away from the car, out of the parking lot into the long strip of greenish brown grass bristling with blades of frost does. not. count. as violence. No blood is shed, and Rune wants blood.) . It's the sudden sharp slap of all that breeding (fucking hell) stabbing through the haze of bloodlust and incipient violence.
"Fucking, fucking, fucking hell." She has a fine potty mouth, has Rune, particularly when she is made absolutely inarticulate by the sudden surge of primal rage so intense it heats up the very air around her, stinks like ozone after a lightning strike. "Get her the fuck inside."
She managed that much, at least. It wasn't exactly a conversation to have outside in the bitter winter weather, for all the world (and the wakening neighbors) to hear.
(bridie)
"Bluddi'ell thasa beg dag yergut dere. J'a lak dags? J'amine puttin' meh down feratick, layde? Ahwuz onlay tryenta sev ya car froum behin' nick'd, yano. Noned fera tantrem, 'hear? Alls gud, righ'?"She moved well for all the Rune was hauling her this way and that. A cocked eyebrow at the comment about going inside. with. her. Dammit. So much for a clean get-away.
(james)
the dog snarls
if a supposed canine could let loose the string of potty words that Rune just did
the expression it wears is fit for something to make a drunken sailor blushAnother one?
ruff shakes as his head rolls from side to side
turning back towards the condo
stalking back towards the condo(rune)
"No, you fucking fucking - argh!" snarled, the statement, somehow above and below the shriek of the car alarm. For several seconds, Rune's mouth just opens and closes - usually she can come up with better insults - but now, she's reduced to a blinding, blistering stream of curse words without so much as an iota of style. "you were fucking with my fucking car and now you're coming inside and if you don't I'm going to rip your fucking head off."The words are uttered - spit - in a flashfire of fury, sharp contrast to her slow advance on the thief, herding her toward the concrete steps and the condo - door open, obvious - beyond.
"Is that fucking clear?"
(bridie)
"Dunge'ya nickaz inanot, layde. Sheesh."She keeps her hands visible, held out in a universal sign of no threat, and allows herself to be herded towards the condo. She tuned to walk (trudge) into the condo as directed (she would like to keep her head, thanks), rolling her eyes and releasing a sigh of resignation.
Yeah, definately, so much for a clean getaway.
(rune)
"I'll get my knickers any fucking way I want them," Rune snarls in absurd reply, though with a fair bit more control than she had five minutes before. Bridie picked the middle of a late autumn coldsnap to try to boost the car, and Rune is beginning - at last - to feel the cold once more, it does something to skim the worst froth of her rage from her mind. Bare feet, bare legs, boxers haphazardly tossed onto the long sure figure, backwards of all things, and a t-shirt: that's all the defense she has against the cold.Up the steps, into the condo go the three of them: half-dressed woman, grumbling would-be thief, shaggy sheperd-like animal. The door slams behind them, but opens a moment later after Rune has retrieved her keys to allow her to shut off the car alarm, then slams shut again.
"Sit your fucking ass down and explain to me exactly why I shouldn't ship your fucking pure bred ass right back to the goddamned joint, you get that? And talk like fucking in ENGLISH, goddamnit."
(bridie)
"Bludyunks ahemtalken'anglish."Muttered as she drops down onto the arm of the leather couch and crosses her arms. Click. Click. Click. Something clicks into place and she closes her eyes and speaks through clenched teeth.
"Ahfooken shyte."
A deep breath taken and expelled through her nose before she clears her throat, tries on a sick smile and fails at it.
"Yerrafookin' geru arnya? Trustha boizta peck'em, eh?"
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Double Fuck. Why her? Why now? Why God?
Unfortunately, God had his prayer-pager on vibrate at the moment and wasn't taking personal calls. Damn. Damn. Damn.
(rune)
"No, you're not talking fucking English. I don't know what the fuck you are talking, but it's hardly fucking.English." She expels a long, frustrated sigh and shoves her hands through tangled hair, taming the toussled black locks into some semblance of almost-order and stalks across the living room - keeping a fair distance between them lest she explode - then down the hallway past the kitchen to hammer on Decker's bedroom door. "I don't know what you're talking, but it's fucking not English."Not at fucking all." Fixate on the woman's language. Try to forget that she was trying to steal your fucking car. Grab a cigarette from the breakfast bar on the way back from Decker's room: in such circumstances, it's probably okay to smoke inside. In such circumstances, it's probably necessary to smoke inside.
Rune lights up and leans back against the breakfast bar, simmering. Each pull on the burning cigarette is short and angry, cherry burning stark red.
"Yes, I'm a fucking Garou. Now fucking answer me, goddamnit. Why the fucking hell shouldn't I just send you back to the fucking joint. And make it goddamned good."
(decker)
Rune knocks...
..
..
..
..Decker answers. Door pops open, pulled a beat before the tongue quite comes free of the groove. The doorframe and half the walls, then, shake with the force of the tug. The inside of the bedroom is pitchblack, stinking of old potsmoke, a little overwarm and a little musty the way a bedroom gets if the windows haven't been opened for, oh, say, a week.
Modi's squinting out at Rune, a half a joint already in his mouth, t-shirt rumpled, feeling around his boxers for matches like he expected to find 'em there. The response is mostly nonverbal: uhhuh?, more grunt than word.
(james)
the.... dog..... flops down onto an appropriate spot
swallowing a low growl
muttering to himself
left paw turned over
absently licking at the wound
pulling the gravel that ground into the still not quite healed wound on the pad during the little foray outsidenot even sure he wants to try to translate the interrupting
(INTER! UPTING!)
theif's accent
but he's sort've keeping track
.... sort've(bridie)
"Bredin' ef noottin' els."She shrugs nonchalantly, holding out a hand (palm down) in front of her as if inspecting the thin leather glove taht protected her from leaving finger prints or maybe it was just cause it was cold enough to freeze the brass balls of a monkey outside.
"Noineyarsfertha guddatha geru enall elrudy en noiwya wanna chookmeh becken ahdinnae evan guttha fookin'der upen. Meryonasteck, yerguttabeh jerkin'."
She eyes James. She liked dogs. She even had several junkers herself, but at the moment. Anything and everything was suspect.
Just my luck...
(rune)
"How about getting your fucking ass out here and explaining why my fucking car is covered in mud." By the time Decker gets the door open, Rune - steaming Rune, dressed haphazardly in backwards black boxers and a twisted t-shirt, unpainted, toussled Rune - is half-way through her cigarette, flicking the ash into an empty bottle of beer and ready to grab another one. "Incidentally, you can fucking explain to me what the fuck the Fenrir fucking Kinfolk who tried to steal my fucking muddy car is fucking saying. While you're fucking at it."If it's no fucking trouble." Rune flashes a sick, curling smirk that does not come close to alighting in her narrowed eyes in Decker's general direction, then turns the full force of her gaze back on Bridie.
"Hello?" The word is punctuated by the rap of her knuckles on the tiled top of the breakfast bar. "I can't understand a fucking word you're fucking saying. How fucking hard is it to speak in fucking. - mother of christ - English?"
(Decker)
Mud? Decker's mind is mud for a moment. Now that it's apparent the Wyrm wasn't on the verge of breaking down the door, the Modi throws his shoulder to the doorframe, reaches forward to snag Rune's cigarette and light his own joint from it. Every movement takes a hundred years: lazy. as. an. anaconda.Scratch under his shoulderblade (streeetch).
Rub the back of his neck.
Scuff the bristle of his hair.
Yawn like a lion.Passing the cigarette back to her, he nudges off the door and turns back into the darkness of the bedroom, snagging a pair of pants off the ground. Give it a sniff. Not too bad. Step into it. "So y' can't see the scratches I put in it," he slurs, deadpan, and zips up his fly. Another squint Rune's way. "Kin?"
(bridie)
She shrugs slightly at the reprimand from Rune - coincidentally, since american english was a bastardized version of the queen's english, she was technically speaking alright and they weren't - if you could get past the layers of accents that could even confused the hell out of those from Liverpool (shudder). She reaches up and scratches the back of her neck idly with a gloved hand, much in the same manner of Decker was doing, and then lets her hair fall forward into her face, coincidentally covering the tattoos around her right eye - the number 13 and two tears. They were prison tattoos, if you knew what you were looking for (and at). If they couldn't understand a damn word she was saying, why say anything at all?(james)
dog
dog
guttermutt
haphazard breeding lineage showing through in the ragged coat
looks like there's shepard and wolf and newfoundland and.... and....
Gaia knows what elsewhatever he is
the animal isn't happy
there's that roiling ball of Rage that's strangled down tight
(frust. tray. ted.)he'd still like to bite her arm off
(rune)
".scratches."Dark eyes leave Bridie and settle - at last - on Decker as he emerges from the gloom of his musty, darkened room. It wasn't the best time for a joke like that. It better be a fucking joke. Right now? Rune doesn't think it's a joke, not at all.
".kinfolk.Fenrir.kinfolk." Abruptly, Rune pushes off from the breakfast bar and flickers the smoldering butt of her cigarette into the empty beer bottle that served as an ashtray. She stalks toward the stairs, and pauses at the foot of them, casting a glance across her shoulder, clarifying through gritted teeth.
"Fenrir kinfolk who tried to steal my fucking car. The car you scratched. Remember that one? Your responsibility now, but she better be here in the fucking morning in case I still wanna kill her."
With that, Rune turns and stalks up the steps, long sure strides into darkness.
(imogen)
Okay, the chaos of next door? Was not unnoticed. She does not go wandering over, demanding to know what is up (because, curious as she is, when her neighbours start to pound and slam doors, she probably does not want to know), but being next door, the car alarm, the snapping, and the vague slurred sounds of angry voices were clearly audible through her walls.A file folder is snapped shut, as she abandons it on her coffee table, as she starts to step outside, shoving her feet into boots, and grabbing a jacket from the closet (with forethought, she grabs the jacket with her cigarettes) sliding into it's near warmth as she steps out into the cold with a mist of breath, eyes turning toward the condo, quiet, as she pulls her package from her pocket, slowly removing a cigarette, and sliding it between her lips. Most people had the sense to stay inside on a night like tonight. Too cold.
And while loud sounds and angry voices would sometimes draw attention, when it's them it usually results in everyone walking the other way, and locking their doors extra tight.
(decker)
The tip of Decker's joint glows briefly brighter as he pulls back on it. Silent, narrow-eyed, he watches the Glass Walker go. A moment later he moves, shoulder sliding along the wall as he comes up the hall. Too damn much effort to stand up straight.A wisp of smoke dissipates in his wake to mark his passing. Coming into the living room, squinting in the light in that not-quite-squinting way of his, lazy-eyed, he eyes the newcomer before he sets the joint firm between his lips, drags up a stool from the breakfast bar, and levers himself up.
The silent interrogation of his grey gaze goes on and on and on. All the while the ash on his joint burns longer and longer until, abruptly and just in time, he rescues it from his mouth, turns almost-not-quite-graceful, and ashes it into the sink. Turning back, joint goes between his teeth and moves as he speaks, a flick of his eyes glinting hard grey beneath his Nordic brow.
"You lookin' fer us?" Us being, clearly, the Garou.
The Fenrir's nineteen. Frightening to think what he'd be like in twenty years. Fortunately for the world, he's likely to be dead long before then.
(james)
the animal's head swings up as Rune stalks up the stairs
a slow blink of intelligent eyes
glancing at the surfacing Modi
velvet ears flickering, twitching as if hearing somethingthick pelt moves as it stretches
toes spreading on the plush carpet
some strange version of a playbow lengthening muscles through long back
jaw gaping as tongue rolls and lols
bushy tail a slow flag as the movement inverses
haunches sinking to gravity's call in sitthat's when the boots sound heavy on the stairs
sleek Walker primped, painted, and dressed returns
dark eyes tossing scorching looks at those within her living room
leather whispers with each step as jacket shrugs on
fingers crawling into her gloves
keys snatched off the counter
the glare darkening at the ash into the -sink- rather than the nearby -ashtray-not another word is said as she storms out of the condo
Posted by james at December 03, 2002 12:00 AM
the large dog following close on her heels
(she's worried about scratches yet she lets an animal of that size on leather seats?)
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