what to wear when…her lungs sag, heavy with held-in secrets. her tapered nails tap a map, she blinks in code, her every sinewy act is one of subterfuge. she nicks incisions into his story, noting where to stick her blade later. hooking her thumbs under his lapel and her teeth into his heart, she presses her cheek to his and whispers, her red lips slipping over strange words that once cracked and rattled in her mouth but have since been tongued into familiarity. she is paranoid, competent to viciousness, elegant enough in a backless black dress but still steel-willed while shooting men and leaving them to the wharf rats, pausing only to kick a lead shell with a neat recoil of her sky-high heel (for nissanissas).
post 217 of an infinity-part series