nunonogueira
He studied her face. Her eyes were almond-shaped grey-green mirrors, giving away nothing. Her mouth intricately outlined in silver lipcoat lacquer.
"You’re the artist, right? What exactly is it that you do?" he risked, attempting to prolong the conversation.
"I disassemble 1960’s diatonic accordions, stretch out their bellows over the frames of crashed luxury cars and spray-paint Casualties Union propaganda on them."
"Are you serious?" Travis asked, incredulous.
"No."
The CEOs, plastic surgeons and corporate investment bankers grew noticeably impatient as a light drizzle started to dance around the flames. Travis brushed an imaginary speckle of dust off the left sleeve of his crisp black jacket.
“I think there is a storm coming,” he said noncommittally.
From a distance, the sounds of secondary explosions echoed.
Her sea-green eyes laughed as she brought a slice of fugu to her lips. The adept way she wielded the lacquered chopsticks made her lover think of textured silk, hemp rope and a meticulously raked bed of sand. Of blood pooling underneath raw steak.
The seagull dove head-first into the school, oblivious.