( distantly, she imagines silco's geriatric squint surveying the emoji options on his mobile set-up like it's all Very Serious, phone screen jammed into his face. like their little yellow expressions will make more sense up-close, a choice as insignificant but integral to conducting business as debating how to sign off an email. which one screams polite yet slightly inconvenienced professional? god, he's such a fucking dad. makes a sort of sense for why he'd been her perfect pick for the job — the hiring pool of guys who wouldn't pop a boner over inventorying her panties is slim pickings. silco, for all he'd probably mistake tiktok as slang for hurry your sweet ass up and leave her on read over the mistranslation, is uniquely qualified.
her own little sign-off to the conversation: ani blips out a snort of amusement. returns the favor by not interrupting his damage assessment of the club. by nightfall, she squares her shit away in the corner of the tent, unobtrusive. ani's thoughts are less so, an intrusive refrain that keeps reminding her of that unmentionable thing tucked away with the rest of her unmentionables. (a stupid name — ani has an easier time talking about her panties than the proof of how she got played.)
before she drops into her tent that morning, she leaves behind a vintage bottle of a fine red at the lip of his, a 1990 lafite rothschild, five-finger lifted from portia's personal collection. (see also: her unattended birkin; ani only briefly considered stealing the baby with the bathwater.). the attached pink post-it reads, in loopy curls of glitter pen: IOU. )
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her own little sign-off to the conversation: ani blips out a snort of amusement. returns the favor by not interrupting his damage assessment of the club. by nightfall, she squares her shit away in the corner of the tent, unobtrusive. ani's thoughts are less so, an intrusive refrain that keeps reminding her of that unmentionable thing tucked away with the rest of her unmentionables. (a stupid name — ani has an easier time talking about her panties than the proof of how she got played.)
before she drops into her tent that morning, she leaves behind a vintage bottle of a fine red at the lip of his, a 1990 lafite rothschild, five-finger lifted from portia's personal collection. (see also: her unattended birkin; ani only briefly considered stealing the baby with the bathwater.). the attached pink post-it reads, in loopy curls of glitter pen: IOU. )