who: @misflung where: isolde walk-in fridge, between bursting creates of peaches and dwindling pans of oysters.
The meticulously shaped curve of her thumbnail fits perfectly between the minute gap beneath her two front teeth. She presses into it, watching him through vespers of smoke rising from the cigarette pinched between her index and middle finger.
It's herbal, vanilla with a pleasant edge of citrus, but she still shouldn't be smoking it; the ash, her dress. It's a lot like how she shouldn't be sitting here with him, but then River has always been an assemblage of shouldn'ts knit together with the fine thread of well, maybe.
From her perch on a box of vegetables, she stretches out her arm, offering up the cigarette.
"Don't dance with her."