COLT
Usually, I ain't the type to stay up all damn night
Thinkin' 'bout someone else
It's hard to be fine when your heart's on the line
And the truth is I'm goin' through hell
Thinkin' 'bout someone else
It's hard to be fine when your heart's on the line
And the truth is I'm goin' through hell
"Haven't died yet," she grins, as if that's the bar she's set her cooking talents to. "Mm, I don't much eat what I bake," she shrugs, understanding the lack of a sweet tooth, although there's plenty that could be made that are less sugary. "It's something easy to do that makes other people happy though, and one or two to balance out the sour can hit right." Certainly softens the news of shit work for her ranch hands, she has found. A little bribery never hurt. She glances at her brownie batter on the counter, more something to keep her busy while she waited for him than an offering, although she certainly meant for them to eat it tonight. The invitation that she might change his mind lands like a challenge, the corner of her lip curling. She'd have picked something other than brownies if that's the case, but patience, maybe she'd win him over some other night.
His ask surprises her, like she didn't realize she'd just put something vulnerable out there, or that he'd care to pick it up. Admittedly, it's one of the few past pains she has made peace with, so none of it flakes off in her, even under his request. "Horse flipped over on her," she says evenly, although her hands stray from the counter and cross over the flour of her apron, one finger tapping on her elbow. "She got up, took two steps, then gone. Neck broke." She's kept her gaze off him during the tale, finding a corner of the kitchen that the light hits instead, not really wanting to witness whatever shock, pity, or put on sorrow for a woman he never met would surface on him. Hell, she'd barely met her too. "Life's a bitch," she shrugs, like that's that.
The moment ripples past easily, just a sigh over a pond, and then the life that they both still have in them remerges from the shadow, bright with his laugh, meaningful with her assigned task. "Yessir," she teases, getting into action to gather all the things he's listed. "Don't blame me if you catch fire," she calls after him.
Cutting board and knife clatter on the counter, and she bumps the fridge shut with a hip after getting the butter. She reclaims the salt, pepper, and something orange that still smells alright from the cupboard. Another sip from her drink and she's washing her hands, craning her head around her kitchen window to spy him outside. A moment to admire the look of him there, more natural than she cares to admit, before she turns back to the counter. She dives in, slicing, smothering, and seasoning, until the vegetables glisten with the promise of flavor.
His ask surprises her, like she didn't realize she'd just put something vulnerable out there, or that he'd care to pick it up. Admittedly, it's one of the few past pains she has made peace with, so none of it flakes off in her, even under his request. "Horse flipped over on her," she says evenly, although her hands stray from the counter and cross over the flour of her apron, one finger tapping on her elbow. "She got up, took two steps, then gone. Neck broke." She's kept her gaze off him during the tale, finding a corner of the kitchen that the light hits instead, not really wanting to witness whatever shock, pity, or put on sorrow for a woman he never met would surface on him. Hell, she'd barely met her too. "Life's a bitch," she shrugs, like that's that.
The moment ripples past easily, just a sigh over a pond, and then the life that they both still have in them remerges from the shadow, bright with his laugh, meaningful with her assigned task. "Yessir," she teases, getting into action to gather all the things he's listed. "Don't blame me if you catch fire," she calls after him.
Cutting board and knife clatter on the counter, and she bumps the fridge shut with a hip after getting the butter. She reclaims the salt, pepper, and something orange that still smells alright from the cupboard. Another sip from her drink and she's washing her hands, craning her head around her kitchen window to spy him outside. A moment to admire the look of him there, more natural than she cares to admit, before she turns back to the counter. She dives in, slicing, smothering, and seasoning, until the vegetables glisten with the promise of flavor.
I keep it dark, I keep it quiet
But then you come around and light me up
Takin' up space like a hyphen
You're on my mind and I can't fight it
But then you come around and light me up
Takin' up space like a hyphen
You're on my mind and I can't fight it
Received a Gilded Market wig from Remi that resembles her usual hair and is enchanted to stay on better than most wigs | has a reverse centaur tattoo on her left hand with the legs going down her pointer and middle fingers that looks like this.
