STRUCK A NERVE, it seems. she can only assume. he hadn’t responded quick enough. a mere, rigid half- beat passed. or perhaps it was in fact the opposite. his response being exactly punctual, the measure of nonchalance built up and whittled away, compacted and adjusted with a silver tongue trim stood to argue he’d gotten it down to a science. the do’s and don’t’s, a dead parents edition ( step three, be flippant. to a fault. wear out your rows of teeth over you grief with each simper &smile. gnaw upon it, unrelenting, like a bone ) . and therein exploited the off set. mothers and fathers, a concept that prevailed to evade her at every imperative aspect ; cants her head, half-lidded and glass-eyed, the tepid veneer falters to observe with a keen, somewhat provocative sense. as it unraveled in his face, familiar, grave lines which resembled the convoluted dissonance of a family vein. the tension provided by reflections resurfacing with nagging emphasis —— every praise that trapped itself in the column of daddy’s throat and each heartfelt which hoarded in the cage of mama’s ribs — protrudes into the space between her and him and his God Awful on wheels. she takes a step, it brings her off the side walk. another, and another. until she is bowed and ducking into the open window. arms folded, the girl leans in. most of her that inclines in is black hair, raven, in need of a trim. ghost touched, strands of white. a rosary chain peeks from out her collar. it’s heavy, chipped at. tucked away underneath her dress and buttons.
it smells like him. murky, ashen. what that meant, specifically, was still working itself out soundly between the gears of her mind. they churned warmly, considering him.. ( what is him, by the way ) . nostrils flare with the upholstery, the musky accent. the paint job. she is closer now, but still he looks like stain, smudgy in certain places. an impressive visual in others. ❛ we’re not exactly having a heart to heart here, ❜ the flask is looser and looser, hanging from her skinny fingers by the tips. dangles, kind of clatters against the door. she seems to sigh, resting her head, drunk. ❛ i , hm. think i feel that, too, ❜ she knows Death. death knows her, kisses her flush on the mouth, greedily. she’s sweet, angel blood. the last of the ichor at the bottom of the bottle. she turns a half-smile towards him, ❛ i’m going .. to the swimming pool. at the center. no one’s there now, probably . ah, you’ll really take me ? ❜
WATCH HIM QUIVER , backbone aflame at aggrieved shiver and a horrid hoarfrost creeping dominion over the curl of his fingers over the steering wheel as he nods , like page , slavish + simpering , salacity curved to the brim of his cap and the black velvet of it all the dark of night and the murk of day , all things holy / hallowed and liminal with loathing reborn slain to sleaze and the wretched romp of those born from it . HE KNOWS THE STREET KIDS , ( perhaps better when breath’d coursed still through his lungs , burning and aching and scouring him open / pure —- god , what a feeling , mouths open and drunk on life on living on the scintillant brilliance of it all , lips seamed to savage disdain for the cokeheads and meth - addicts who looked at the glory of it all and dared beg MORE ) knows their vile whimsies and nonsensical malevolence , contempt more an absurd idiosyncrasy of hellish craft than any real threat ; he’d found within that raucous thresh company , once , dolorous affections soothed to boombox - beat and a grand and vapid neon violence – now , only the wan peaks of the occult and esoteric , pride - drunken hiss crowning death as craven relent . he’d retained precious little post - death , a precedent that the vile slick of his head over the asphalt’d only aided , but he’d always been able to cling : fingers as hooks and vicious yearning , svelte suede sundered to crooning want . he’d pilfered enough of that precious other life to know the unkind dark of night .
` yeah – yeah , ‘course . i said that . ’ murmur like tempest from his lips , a rubicund spill , maelstrom promised as maestro - craft of dulcet euphony – she beckons a cloying cascade , a perfume unfamiliar to him hooked into the bob of his throat as he leans over the gearshift , fingers ghost - white and fumbling against the velveteen dark of her and him and moonlight approaching ever - near as deific rapture of trawling loath . slicked as the collar of his jacket , his nape crawls , a phantom disquiet claiming flesh as romping ground – against her he feels gauzy , diaphanous , each fragrant spill prompting a flush , rosen , over the bridge of his nose as over a dusky dusting he mulls the flighty sweetness of her , a nuanced edge to her features that prompts of him reverence as much as lechery . roseate and riotous , she’s a travesty masterpiece of the girls he’d known , lips leering and fingers coveting great fistfuls of rancour —- it unnerves him , but not so much that his fingers slip as he pushes open the door , a strangled yelp waning to nothing when it swings short of her waist . (freed of his confinement , his fingers appear even paler – he lets them flex , knuckles bloodied beauteous , then shudders with the ghoulish horror of it , idling to lay his palm at his lap . ) `pool? you serious? you swimming? don’t answer that . not my business . yeah . okay . yeah . get in . ’
