Don't paint wonderful lies on me that wash away
Tobacco smoke drifting on a nightly breeze announced his presence as surely as the sound of descending footsteps had. It belonged with him, like the taste of whiskey and seasalt, like the slight rasp in his voice as he said her name. Maea was overome with a sudden sense of loss when that fragile tendril of vapor coiled past her without registering. Was he even really there, if she could not smell him? Was she? It made her feel more a ghost than anything had so far, more than even the faint recollection - fading, almost gone - of maybe actually having been a ghost? Or a sort. Or maybe it had been a dream.
No wonder things did not turn out the way she might have hoped, when she was not who she used to be.
"Hello, Sunjata." Her head turned slowly to face him, a picture of calm for all that it was only a facade. Here, now, without others to intrude it was both easier and harder to look at him properly. It felt good, in a painful, picking at scabs, pressing fingertops into bruises kind of way. Satisfying. Foolish and fun. "Rough night?" He looked good. He looked awful. A beautiful trainwreck.
Same old, same old.
No wonder things did not turn out the way she might have hoped, when she was not who she used to be.
"Hello, Sunjata." Her head turned slowly to face him, a picture of calm for all that it was only a facade. Here, now, without others to intrude it was both easier and harder to look at him properly. It felt good, in a painful, picking at scabs, pressing fingertops into bruises kind of way. Satisfying. Foolish and fun. "Rough night?" He looked good. He looked awful. A beautiful trainwreck.
Same old, same old.
