M - her disappearing theme

[Luz Cresceno]

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JUST EXCEPTIONALLY BAD AT SAYING WHEN Such diversions. Her thoughts jitter-bugged, her emotions did the frug under megawatt lighting, and her fingers made small circles on dark expanses. Yet such symptoms were expected whenever the darkling girl was in town; she had come to anticipate them with equal parts exhilaration and arrhythmia. Though wound with girlish appendages, such truths were not immediately apparent from the lay of her limbs, who baffled any secondary sources with their casual angles. Ah, a sip of wine. Odd, how her senses reeled, and grew wild with detail. Yesterday her tongue had been numb to the myriad flavors contained; today, their savoring made her mouth into a sloppy, lopsided bend. The only elixir more delicious? The flecks of pleasure she caught, like burning stars in a little grey-girl’s palm, and lapped from her companion’s eyes. She couldn’t quite recall how they’d gotten up to such mischief, but her fingers walked the valleys and mountains of Poe D’Angelo’s hips, elbows, the shy wonder of her palms. Questions were being asked; she laughed, low, slow, chuckling, because she knew no more appropriate answer. “I do not know them very well, peachbottom,” she said, lacing the epithet in without a doubt-flicker, “so I suppose I do.” Violet found gold-emerald. “And you? How's fancy free going for you?” The wine bottle slipped from her fingers and made the softest sound, as her hand slid (quite conspicuously) to an ebony thigh.

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