[The most annoying thing about this man, Matoba thinks, is not the coy and emphatic surface he projects, but that sieve that sorts through the heart's static and finds the grains of precious emotional inflection that bubble up from beneath.]

[What a shame it is that annoyance, itself, is also one of those precious grains.]

[Behind the veils, the glittering of an eye mirrors his reaction with that brief annoyance. Like a ripple on a lake, affecting that which is caught upon it. A hunter, Matoba does not like to be the one caught upon anything, but in this he knows he must endure, lest he allow it to ripple further outward beyond this man.]

"Maybe", [She repeats, dubious, though able to be dismissed easily as a playful repartee rather than the agreement it is. She appears to contemplate that answer for a moment, a quiet in which the bustle and swell of the dancefloor picks up around them in a low din.]

[Then, extending her curled hand, she perches fingertips over his chest- over that most vulnerable point- and invites herself into his arms.]

That isn't an offer to be made to me lightly, [She intimates, a soft whisper upon netting,] I hope you are capable of paying the price if I become bored.