it takes a moment, two, for the pause to translate in the slow untensing of her shoulders, or the way her nervy hands finally stop fidgeting, all of that fake hair in her face with no more real drive to fix it.
this time when she laughs, it's inelegant but genuine. apparently formality is a joke here that should be told to other people more interested in hearing it, because this man certainly isn't her target audience. breathe — but instead of relying on harmony, robin leans back on her imagination instead, imagining this boy's long fingers along his cigarette. strong hands. perhaps he might hold the smoke in his chest for a long time, letting it cool and coil in his lungs, grow heavy and steady her where she sits, and then she exhales and straightens up on the stool. )
How could anyone be anything but, with a charmer like you?
( as her hand tugs the wig free from where it last clings sadly to her head, black threads falling past her face like the descent of his next puff of smoke.
her hair is brighter underneath, and then brighter than that when the contrast is stark when it had been black before. it's the white wings that are, frankly, a little jarring, fluttering like a bird taking flight as soon as they're freed.
or like an angel, since aki has been trying so hard not to make the comparison on his side of the narrative. )
Allow me to start over, then. My name is Robin. It looked like you got saddled with a ride you weren't very eager to take.
( in very pretty lines, humored, courting neither controversy or even a real tease. the kind of lilting enunciation that must have been practiced once, or rehearsed for television in all its charismatic trappings for one (1) aki hayakama to find charming or incredibly off-putting. )
We could spend the next two hours discussing more convincing ways to get rid of it, if you prefer.
Or, if we're really both willing, we can use it together and save the chips and dignity that you — and I, having touched it — would otherwise lose.
no subject
it takes a moment, two, for the pause to translate in the slow untensing of her shoulders, or the way her nervy hands finally stop fidgeting, all of that fake hair in her face with no more real drive to fix it.
this time when she laughs, it's inelegant but genuine. apparently formality is a joke here that should be told to other people more interested in hearing it, because this man certainly isn't her target audience. breathe — but instead of relying on harmony, robin leans back on her imagination instead, imagining this boy's long fingers along his cigarette. strong hands. perhaps he might hold the smoke in his chest for a long time, letting it cool and coil in his lungs, grow heavy and steady her where she sits, and then she exhales and straightens up on the stool. )
How could anyone be anything but, with a charmer like you?
( as her hand tugs the wig free from where it last clings sadly to her head, black threads falling past her face like the descent of his next puff of smoke.
her hair is brighter underneath, and then brighter than that when the contrast is stark when it had been black before. it's the white wings that are, frankly, a little jarring, fluttering like a bird taking flight as soon as they're freed.
or like an angel, since aki has been trying so hard not to make the comparison on his side of the narrative. )
Allow me to start over, then. My name is Robin. It looked like you got saddled with a ride you weren't very eager to take.
( in very pretty lines, humored, courting neither controversy or even a real tease. the kind of lilting enunciation that must have been practiced once, or rehearsed for television in all its charismatic trappings for one (1) aki hayakama to find charming or incredibly off-putting. )
We could spend the next two hours discussing more convincing ways to get rid of it, if you prefer.
Or, if we're really both willing, we can use it together and save the chips and dignity that you — and I, having touched it — would otherwise lose.