uzi: arт✖eѕad rιвιc (pic#3697732)
coммander мonιca cнang █ тнє вℓα¢к ωι∂σω ([personal profile] uzi) wrote in [community profile] capeandcowllogs 2013-04-26 06:26 pm (UTC)

( She's a person of routine and constant movement. Sunday morning, crack of dawn, and she's out in sweats and a tank-top and Nikes, a towel around her shoulders and her arms bare. She keeps moving, laps and laps through Central Park, miles and miles that keep her fit as her mind thinks through twelve hundred problems. She doesn't stop, doesn't make eye contact, doesn't smile. She just keeps moving.

And then it's over, and her muscles feel taut in the best way and there's a glimmer of sweat across her brow, under the curve of her chest. She's breathing hard when she pushes her way into her regular cafe, when she orders something herbal and cool and caffeinated all at once. And then, only then, does she spot him.

Oh. He does have a lot of nerve. She can see hangover written all over him, she can smell it like a wolf smells fear. Instead of being mad--oh, no, she's not mad, hasn't let herself be mad in ages, only irritated--she's glad. Not glad to see him, but glad he's given her this opportunity. Glad her muscles are aching comfortably and her heart beat is steady and she's got a glass of passion fruit lemonade iced tea something or other in her hand.

She marches over to him, every inch a commander. She takes a deliberate sip of her drink and then sets in down on his table. And then, in a voice pitched low so no one else can hear but harsh enough to hurt sensitive ears, she says: )


You. Are. A. Dead. Man.

Actually, I hoped you were. Because that would've been the only reasonable explanation.

I guess now I will have to kill you.

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