（ nat accepts his hand — hers is calloused and worn. batons. the butt of a gun. manicures only go so far, and she hasn't had one in years. she was polished and put-together once, now she has nail polish like the sad, chipped yellow at the edges of a sunset that's weeks old but feels like years. hair still faded out to blonde at the roots. she could cut it off. crop it, curl it. straighten it. any of the thousand things she's done before to stand out less in a crowd.
but maybe she likes the dichotomy in colour theory.
she shakes his hand and lets him go with a wry smile. ）
You'll be less delighted after I kick your butt.
（ consider it a gauntlet thrown. she bounces the ball once, twice. behind her back, just to show off. it's not ballet, but her shoes didn't make the trip. ）
no subject
but maybe she likes the dichotomy in colour theory.
she shakes his hand and lets him go with a wry smile. ）
You'll be less delighted after I kick your butt.
（ consider it a gauntlet thrown. she bounces the ball once, twice. behind her back, just to show off. it's not ballet, but her shoes didn't make the trip. ）
First one to twenty-one wins?