smoke curls up around the tip of her cigarette, cherry burning fireglow orange, the memory of it always present against her skin. the cat doesn’t bat an eyelash — the vape isn’t her speed, even if sometimes it is. sometimes it feels bad bad bad. she doesn’t think about the way it stings the way it sounds the ssss—
she arches forward in a little tilt of the hips, craning a neck to gaze across the long, dark, neat sutures across her forearm. a neat, clean slice, unfortunately her own escape caught on a bottle, a sharp, long thing. she’s unmoved by it. the nurse’s tshirt rides up a little at the deep dent of muscled hips, leaves shadows in a strip of pale, pale skin exposed to view. the black strip of material sits comfortably over kohl-smudged eyes, painfully kittenish brown.
a hand taps out the ash into a little tray she keeps in the compartment of her utility belt. chipped red nails reflect a dull red like a sportacar left forgotten in the garage of a family of four. she clicks her tongue in approval, a theatrical, high whistle.
“you’ve got the hands of a doctor, nurse nelson.”
@kitchenknifes
