#pushplay.

        Most had their fair share of words for the female. Most had their own assumptions and stamps to stick to her image just as she stuck upon herself when the spotlight hit. But night? Night was another story. Night was a freedom, a shroud. She’d shoved all that she was into her shadow, forcing it to drag behind her and hide in the day but now she was open, or as open as she wished. It was a time for recklessness and selfishness and sometimes for reflection. Right now it served as a comfort, wind nipping at her shoulders and threatening to expose her to whosoever recognized. She probably didn’t care, the tales of her previous endeavor spun in her head, stung her wrists in now reddened marks and for that she pulled back a chair and set the two drinks on the table, one soda, one alcohol. 

       “Only one of us is allowed to look that miserable tonight.”

In the midst of an emergency there are a list of steps they teach children when they’re young and forget to reiterate when they’re older. Routine is nice but repetition is necessary. A child is saved from a scolding but not trials to come. In retrospect parents will tell the reporters they reassured them this and they told them that. All in all it was pointless. It was the basic rule of training. Repetition. It’s also why her steps are rusty in practice. Very rarely has she been placed in a situation where instinct fails her. 

Asses the situation. Jinri is outside her door, shivering and without warning. If it weren’t for the constant rub of her hands against her body she would’ve thought the girl was a statue. Wouldn’t that be a surprise. The surprise in itself is how much time it takes Lexi to move.

“Where’s your jacket——-!!!” She’s supposed to handle the situation calmly and then ask questions. She’s always been more of an observer and upon catching sight of the girl chattering and standing at the door she supposed questions come later and movements come first. So many questions so little time. So many actions, so little remembrance. The surprise is welcome but concern though it wears thin on her face is still there. It’s there in the pauses after her question and the movement her body takes to step aside.

First things first get her warm. She’s assessed the situation right? She’s cold for god’s sake! Get her warm, ask questions later. Don’t ask questions. Forget questions.

It says somewhere that if you swallow poison knowingly you’re rejecting your purpose and therefore sinning willingly. Well everyone sins willingly don’t they? Suppose it's a little different when someone makes the poison themselves, but details details. She doesn’t know much about purpose she knows what she can be good at and what she’s chosen to be good at. She knows what she can do rather than what she must. She must not do anything, that’s what she takes pride in.

She knows how she aims to put aside all that defines her for a newer, more volatile look. When the lights are off anyway. Some might call it daring. Others might call it reckless. The difference being one is for attention and the other is to cure numbness. The thing about someone like Lexi is that once something has a label she forgoes it. Whether the label be too sticky, too tight or just right she fights against assimilation with bared knuckles. Well as bare as her knuckles can get. All in all she’s a hipster. Don’t let her hear you say it. Remember labels! labels! labels! She’s also pretty fucking weird but she’ll admit to that.

It’s why she hangs upside down from the jungle gym. She almost looks like a gymnast with her puffy sweater covering parts of her body even the public hasn’t seen. The bottom half of a one-piece swimsuit under it all pink and bright doesn’t leave much to speculation. She almost looks insane all covered and uncovered in the criss cross of the bar shadows across her face. She’s not cold because she’s always cold and that’s why she can swing so willingly on the bar, cold metal hitting her flesh like a collision of two halves.

There’s a small grunt following the lifting of a rather large box over her head. It almost sounds pained behind the mask she wears over her nose and lips. If it weren’t for the oversized sweater clinging to the tips of her fingers holding the box probably wouldn’t be as hard as it was. If it weren’t for her stubborn nature the contents would have been delivered rather than requiring a pick-up. There’s no sense crying over mishaps, she’ll complain silently of course, grimace and curse but for the most part she’s still lifting it.

“As you can see,“ she begins but she’s still adjusting the weight between her fingers and her head, "I definitely don’t need your help getting home. I know perfectly well where my apartment is and even if I didn’t it’s not that dark where I can’t report the face of someone trying to kidnap me.” It’s important, speaking blessings aloud. It’s how she gets rid of the very fears she should have.

“You promised you wouldn’t laugh!” Words sound a lot better when they’re not drenched in liquor. Lucky for her companion she’s not breathing them in her face. Now that’s revolting. She does have some shred of etiquette in the midst of her less than complimentary state. It’s somewhere, hiding behind the curl of her fingers around the wine bottle or under cusp of her skirt that only rises the higher up she goes.

She’s not drunk. She’s not. Her words don’t just slide off her tongue without destination. She’s not wobbling as she steps off the cushion of the booth and onto the table. There’s a small wiggle but she makes it to the top of the table. There’s a certain grace to her hobbling, her rocking and desperate attempt to keep her balance. She’s not even on a shaky surface; it’s her core balance that’s being tested. However balanced she was not had everything to do with the reason she came and not the amount of drinks she’s taken in.

“Blessed be she who doesn’t need a pole to dance!” She’s never taken so much pleasure in not sounding like herself. She’s never taken such pleasure in sheer absurdity. It practically drips from her.