( she doesn't turn instantly. not before the traces of vulnerability are swept away by a rough swipe of her knuckles, collecting saliva and bits of cheap diner food, with all the discreteness of a car crash clean-up crew — no wreckage for him to rubberneck at, no big tragedy for him to perform at sympathy for, no reason for him to make her sicker than she already is. unladylike, she heaves out a glob of spit into the sink, running the cool after to watch it circle down the drain, cleanse out her mouth, get right back to work like it never happened at all. story of her fucking life.
it says a lot about him — saint, which earns immediate commentary from ani in the form of a disbelieving snort — that his selection is modest, librarian-chic. predictable as shit, really. what's less expected: the implication of where he's categorized her on the on the madonna-whore spectrum, landing her more closely to saintly madonna than being relegated to the flashy sequins of a trashy slut so she knows just what he views her as. like she's anywhere close to being the type of woman who should be swathed in cashmere, and not — sweating out rhinestones and glitter, like a bird flashing its colors around for attention. )
No one does stage names anymore, honey. That's trashy, ( she drawls, lifting her drooping head to flash him an assessing glance. it does, to her credit, sound kinder than insisting, what kinda parent names their kid saint? one who believes in the inherent goodness of their child, apparently, which sounds on par with the disney fairytale of financial security and catching your prince charming, and not the real grit of the world ani is familiar with. she reaches out a hand, butterfly wings inked on her knuckles, floating toward the buttery-soft fabric. expensive. way less flashy than anything ivan dolled her up in, nothing but a trophy shown off, glittery and gleaming. never a wife. distractedly, ) Ani. — Is that goddamn cashmere?
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it says a lot about him — saint, which earns immediate commentary from ani in the form of a disbelieving snort — that his selection is modest, librarian-chic. predictable as shit, really. what's less expected: the implication of where he's categorized her on the on the madonna-whore spectrum, landing her more closely to saintly madonna than being relegated to the flashy sequins of a trashy slut so she knows just what he views her as. like she's anywhere close to being the type of woman who should be swathed in cashmere, and not — sweating out rhinestones and glitter, like a bird flashing its colors around for attention. )
No one does stage names anymore, honey. That's trashy, ( she drawls, lifting her drooping head to flash him an assessing glance. it does, to her credit, sound kinder than insisting, what kinda parent names their kid saint? one who believes in the inherent goodness of their child, apparently, which sounds on par with the disney fairytale of financial security and catching your prince charming, and not the real grit of the world ani is familiar with. she reaches out a hand, butterfly wings inked on her knuckles, floating toward the buttery-soft fabric. expensive. way less flashy than anything ivan dolled her up in, nothing but a trophy shown off, glittery and gleaming. never a wife. distractedly, ) Ani. — Is that goddamn cashmere?