I didn't want the smell in the room, [ comes her easy answer, but the whole of it is a little more complicated than that. part of the comfort of the cigars came in the memories, in the line of uncles sitting along the sidewalk or porch, smoking the sun down while aunts gossiped in the living room. the smell wafted and lingered, but only ever on the outskirts, and so if it was to be proper nostalgia at all it couldn't ever cling to anything more than her clothes, her hair. it couldn't be anything more than fleeting. ]
Is whiskey yours?
[ she could, of course, correct him and remind him that alcohol would actually do the opposite of hydrating anyone, but the house is steadily proving itself to be a hotpot of all her worst vices — cigars, alcohol... half-clothed men.
(she notices now, of course, now that she's got more of her breath back. she doesn't stare, perhaps pointedly so, always keeping him in the fringes of direct eyesight, which may or may not be just as obvious (if not more so) than actual overt staring. he doesn't seem at all bothered, and she is determined to follow his cue on that.)
holding out a hand, she accepts his offer with a half-smile. the call of her bedroom is a distant thing in the face of a new, suitable distraction. she still hasn't quite gotten used to the softness of those pillows, the fine feel of the sheets' threadcount. in many ways, she's grateful for it — it would feel some kind of betrayal to the life she left behind to get comfortable — but it certainly doesn't make for easier nights. ]
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Is whiskey yours?
[ she could, of course, correct him and remind him that alcohol would actually do the opposite of hydrating anyone, but the house is steadily proving itself to be a hotpot of all her worst vices — cigars, alcohol... half-clothed men.
(she notices now, of course, now that she's got more of her breath back. she doesn't stare, perhaps pointedly so, always keeping him in the fringes of direct eyesight, which may or may not be just as obvious (if not more so) than actual overt staring. he doesn't seem at all bothered, and she is determined to follow his cue on that.)
holding out a hand, she accepts his offer with a half-smile. the call of her bedroom is a distant thing in the face of a new, suitable distraction. she still hasn't quite gotten used to the softness of those pillows, the fine feel of the sheets' threadcount. in many ways, she's grateful for it — it would feel some kind of betrayal to the life she left behind to get comfortable — but it certainly doesn't make for easier nights. ]