01-09-2008, 11:04 PM
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Nay, fantastic. Or both! Introspection had so robbed her of proper sense that she ignored noise, disregarded those predator instincts that she’d bartered away long ago in favor of civilized treats, arts of thumb and forefinger, a red-cape sense of invincibility. (She’d borrow them back when she happened on a rabbit, say, or when songbirds were too slow.) These sensations let her turn her head, lazily, with a distinct expression of “And what folly is this?” paired with the come-what-may lavender currently headlining her irises. Indeed, it was a spectacle, one that the astronomer’s daughter (who too introduced herself as a member of that trade) observed with a new travesty of expression: amusement. Especially when the skateboarder foiled certain plans for divine (and impartial observer) comedy. That surprised a bray of laughter and applause, the she-wolf’s mouth now decidedly tipped to the left side in unbalanced pleasure. Poker with David Bowie, soundtracks topped by with Traffic’s one-hit-wonder, some other third thing. The life in gender-mystery land seemed to please her enough to instill a desire to keep herself there, yet her chuckles might have already exposed her secrets. Little matter. Abandoning the pond and the reflection so unsuitably nestled there against orange koi backsides, she sauntered towards him, a two-fingered wave serving as greeting. Two kooks in china-town. At sundown. Lordy lordy. Yet the greeting was compromised by a flash of the out-of-character: a quick tumble courtesy a cement-crack, complete with complimentary shock-face. In an attempt to save herself before she fell, she twisted, and by some acrobatic movement landed on her back. Luz Cresceno sighed at the turn circumstance, now sprawled before him and with an inkling of iron-tang taste in her mouth, a sure sign that she’d bitten her tongue. (First time for everything?) Some twist of the angles tweaked at her sense of deja vu, cancelling out all but the most persistent aches. Perhaps now might be the best time to throw sex-enigma to the winds! “Do I know you?” she asked him, casting off any doubts to identity with that lull mezzo, resisting the urge for motion. Her limbs lay as they were: a loose-bound collection of Euclidean lines, none of the angles quite right. |