No Humpties or Dumpties, [ she repeats, pursing her lips to pop the p's. It makes her grin. ] Everyone knows you're a lot better than all the king's horses and men.
[ Sprague gets his point though. Well, she hopes she does — it's kind of part-game, part-guesswork when it comes to something as simple as talking with Jordan. Holding the burning cigarette between the pink of her lips, she takes two very deliberate steps away from him. (Steps that require much more focus and effort and frowning of the brow than Sprague would have first guessed, but it's New Years Eve and nobody cares about a silly thing like dignity.) Then, perhaps not half as gracefully as she'd like, Sprague picks up her imaginary skirts with forefinger and thumb and curtseys.
When she straightens, her mouth falls open as she exhales. The haze of grey drifts up and up and up. ]
I get you. No plants for you, no falls for me. Gotcha.
no subject
[ Sprague gets his point though. Well, she hopes she does — it's kind of part-game, part-guesswork when it comes to something as simple as talking with Jordan. Holding the burning cigarette between the pink of her lips, she takes two very deliberate steps away from him. (Steps that require much more focus and effort and frowning of the brow than Sprague would have first guessed, but it's New Years Eve and nobody cares about a silly thing like dignity.) Then, perhaps not half as gracefully as she'd like, Sprague picks up her imaginary skirts with forefinger and thumb and curtseys.
When she straightens, her mouth falls open as she exhales. The haze of grey drifts up and up and up. ]
I get you. No plants for you, no falls for me. Gotcha.