bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
The edges of her continue to fray as they talk and there is a part of him that wonders if it was a mistake to catch her on what was clearly her way out. Was it a mistake to trap her in this conversation? One corner of his mouth dips in thought, surprised that he even cared. She doesn’t hesitate much when she grabs the second glass and he frowns deeper. “Easy,” is all he says, scarred fingers thrumming on the edge of the wooden bar. It wouldn’t do him any good for her to get sloshed in the first few minutes of talking.
His brows draw together for a second and the scar on his collarbone splits open, blood beginning to drip down his chest. He ignores it and reaches over to run his thumb across her forehead. If it worked, she should begin to feel her nerves untangle and calm. If it worked, she would feel a sense of calm settle into her stomach, a warmth spreading through her belly. Something similar to the heavy calmness that would come if she kept knocking back the drinks he ordered without the loss of control.
He doesn’t acknowledge it though and pays no mind to the blood staining his shirt.
Instead he just laughs at her dry answer. “Sure you do,” he quips, reaching for his own glass once more. He didn’t know her well, but he knew her enough to know that she wasn’t after money. If she was, he would have no interest spending time in her company and he certainly wouldn’t care about her answer.
When she opens up with the truth, his gaze sharpens, sliding over to study her more intently. He ignores the small burn of anger at the name she drops so casually. “That’s an excuse. You have plenty left to give.” He leans over, the space between them lessening so that he can smell her beneath the rest of the bar. It is sweet and surprisingly gentle. Whoever was responsible for dressing her hadn’t doused her in cheap perfume, which was a victory, he supposes. “You could make him happy if you wanted to.”
He can feel her breath here and he glances up at her, one corner of his mouth tilting up wickedly.
He stays there for a beat before leaning back, his scarred fingers once against tapping against the bar. He considers her question, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling as he thinks about his answer. There was so many things he could want, so many things he could have. He could buy most of it. Make the rest.
There was not much in this world denied him.
Still, he lands on an answer and brings his eyes level with her once more. He reaches up to scratch at his chin before running his thumb over his bottom lip. “An unsolvable problem. I’d wish for an unsolvable problem.” Something to sink his teeth into. Something to keep him occupied. His voice drops as he taps his temple. “Something to keep this working.” He knocks his fingers against his chest, a drop of blood smearing. “Something to make me feel alive in here.” It was a surprisingly vulnerable answer but he doesn’t shy from it or break his eye contact with her as he reaches for the glass and takes another swig.
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
