#cal 02

@calliope-warren​

To put it frankly: this band is bad. In Evi’s opinion, anyway, which she makes clear as she puts her hands on her hips and tilts her head as they rev up another song, some terrible swing thing that makes her scoff. “Fokkall, what year is it, 1945?” That’s the trouble of living in a town chock full of immortals, she guesses: their tastes tend to be a little outdated. The comment hasn’t fallen on deaf ears, apparently, which Evi realizes as she turns and comes face to face with her friend. “I mean, really. Would’ve brought a pair of jazz shoes with me if I’d known.” As if she’s ever owned those. No, ballet slippers were what her mother forced into her hands. She’d ended up burning them, if she recalls correctly, and thus ended her dancing career. Well, of the formal sort, anyhow. As for the dance floor... that’s another story. If only there were the right music. For now, though, Evi simply reserves a lopsided smile for her friend, uncaring how they might obstruct those intending to dance. “Look at us. Definitely more polished than our usual muddy gardening clothes.” She laughs, shifting her weight on heeled feet. The shoes had definitely been a mistake. “I was worried maybe I wore you out yesterday with all the mulching. Thanks, again, for the help.”