[ Frost and water are clogging her ears and muffling even the white-out's terrible wind, carrying flurries into Paloma's hair and face and down every crevice. They don't melt because the fake-heat charm broke two days ago, so the person on his front steps looks like someone should be digging them out of an iceberg one hundred years from today. ]
Jesus!
[ Something that might be pottery cracks dully under her contracting elbows. She swings around too fast for the slippery wood, dancing in place until she's very sure nothing will fly away, particularly herself. ]
You're, guh- uhm. [ His tits are out. It's cold. She's looking. ]
no subject
Jesus!
[ Something that might be pottery cracks dully under her contracting elbows. She swings around too fast for the slippery wood, dancing in place until she's very sure nothing will fly away, particularly herself. ]
You're, guh- uhm. [ His tits are out. It's cold. She's looking. ]