no one's gloomy or complaining

Harlowe D'Angelo · 07-15-2010, 04:53 AM

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Harlowe had no idea what a pretty girl was, really—girls were just different from boys, and he found the ones that weren't his sisters to be strange creatures. Even this one was strange—here she was in a library, holding books to her chest, and yet she seemed concerned with his opinion. She seemed to desperately need his validation and reassurance that she was pretty; it was a strange sort of thing, Harlowe thought. Even so, there was something wonderful in having this power over her. This was something the creamy-furred youth had never possessed before, and it struck him, inflating his chest and sending a bolt of adrenaline through his body.

The girl said lots of others thought she was pretty—and then there was the pleading question that only served to increase this wonderful feeling in the D'Angelo boy. What was this, holding something over another? The tawny youth leaned forward, sizing her up with his calculating jade eyes. They roved over her slowly and with scrutiny—it didn't matter if he didn't know what pretty was really supposed to be. He could tell her yes and give her merry validation and look like a fool, or he could relish this power over her a little longer; naturally, he close the latter. Bony shoulders rolled upwards in a slow shrug, and his suddenly disinterested eyes flicked back to her face. “I don't know,” he responded. “Have you ever considered others tell you you're pretty because it's what you want to hear?” the youth asked, tilting his head to the side. There was something akin to a smirk on his face, malice in hoping this would sink into her skull—if she really was the reading type, maybe it would stick with her.

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