( it works, is the thing. simple cures for complicated colds, like her grandmother's kharcho — the best remedies, she used to say, are the ones you make at home. warmth threads through ani's skin, breaks up the lump nestled in her throat, goes down as easy as soup on a sick day. makes it a little easier to breathe again, in a body that's been bogged down by — not homesickness some cousin of it. some shade of the same symptoms, the incurable illness of loss. the yearning for four walls you can't ever go back to, check. home videos of memories looping in her head on repeat, double check. the pain of knowing you'll return a different version of yourself than who you grew to be in that sacred space, the one that smells like lemon-fresh safety. check check check.
modern medicine — ani's homebrew cure-all, which just so happens to be the medicinal vodka-burn still swimming in her head — hasn't brought her any long-term relief. but buffy eases the stiff ache in her shoulders from trying to stand upright. smooths over the shadow-bruised fatigue smudged under her eyes, from trying not to dream a dream of another life. even the shake of her laugh comes freer. sounds less like it's crackly from disuse, and just — happy. to matter enough to someone, for a second. simple and plain. )
Kiss-ass. I don't grade on a curve, but ...
( sly, her leg sweeps outward. playful mimicry of a vintage beauty, hailing a cab with a smooth, scandalous stretch of skin. she winks, showmanship glitz, the light kissing the glittery paint of her eyeshadow, like liquid mercury dripping along her eyelids. )
Compliments will get you extra credit.
( a dimple cuts into her cheek. from where she's standing, buffy reminds her of a girl enthralled by sleight of hand, hopeful for ani to pull a bunny free from a hat next. honestly, it's a balm to the ego. supergirl, wide-eyed and attentive, like ani's the one built supernaturally, impossibly — special. not as someone's sinkhole of sexuality and sweat for the night, but as herself, shining in the element of buffy's admiration — for admiration's sake, no money-driven motive. the newness of it thunderclaps, all electric thrill, in her chest. )
So, tip one. No moisturizing. You're gonna sweat it out like a slip and side. Which is terrible for your grip. Hands — ( one stacked over the other, higher by a fraction. twirling into the smallest swirl of a spin around the pole, carried by momentum's breeze. ) — go here. I mean, there's all sorts of grips, but that's like, serious veteran shit.
( as if to define serious veteran shit — ani hoists herself onto the chrome pillar with a cinch of core strength she knows buffy has in spades. so maybe it's a little try-hard — a talent show need to impress; how do you wow the girl who could lift the bumper of your fucking car, if she wanted to? — when ani shifts from a simple off-ground swing. inverts herself into a pretzel of shapes from there, all upside down backbend, arm stretched to hook onto the en pointe of her toes. )
We call this one cocoon. Like a kinky little butterfly about to be born. ( a coquettish curl of her mouth. ) All about flexibility, baby. Wanna see how far I can bend?
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modern medicine — ani's homebrew cure-all, which just so happens to be the medicinal vodka-burn still swimming in her head — hasn't brought her any long-term relief. but buffy eases the stiff ache in her shoulders from trying to stand upright. smooths over the shadow-bruised fatigue smudged under her eyes, from trying not to dream a dream of another life. even the shake of her laugh comes freer. sounds less like it's crackly from disuse, and just — happy. to matter enough to someone, for a second. simple and plain. )
Kiss-ass. I don't grade on a curve, but ...
( sly, her leg sweeps outward. playful mimicry of a vintage beauty, hailing a cab with a smooth, scandalous stretch of skin. she winks, showmanship glitz, the light kissing the glittery paint of her eyeshadow, like liquid mercury dripping along her eyelids. )
Compliments will get you extra credit.
( a dimple cuts into her cheek. from where she's standing, buffy reminds her of a girl enthralled by sleight of hand, hopeful for ani to pull a bunny free from a hat next. honestly, it's a balm to the ego. supergirl, wide-eyed and attentive, like ani's the one built supernaturally, impossibly — special. not as someone's sinkhole of sexuality and sweat for the night, but as herself, shining in the element of buffy's admiration — for admiration's sake, no money-driven motive. the newness of it thunderclaps, all electric thrill, in her chest. )
So, tip one. No moisturizing. You're gonna sweat it out like a slip and side. Which is terrible for your grip. Hands — ( one stacked over the other, higher by a fraction. twirling into the smallest swirl of a spin around the pole, carried by momentum's breeze. ) — go here. I mean, there's all sorts of grips, but that's like, serious veteran shit.
( as if to define serious veteran shit — ani hoists herself onto the chrome pillar with a cinch of core strength she knows buffy has in spades. so maybe it's a little try-hard — a talent show need to impress; how do you wow the girl who could lift the bumper of your fucking car, if she wanted to? — when ani shifts from a simple off-ground swing. inverts herself into a pretzel of shapes from there, all upside down backbend, arm stretched to hook onto the en pointe of her toes. )
We call this one cocoon. Like a kinky little butterfly about to be born. ( a coquettish curl of her mouth. ) All about flexibility, baby. Wanna see how far I can bend?