[ @laemb / kissy. ]
Thrumming with life, as though she can tell and identify each of her own living cells from the other, and at the same time near-grave-tired; she can still feel the weight of John’s head in her hand, feeling like an idealised Salome, blood-soaked and yet so much more righteous than the Baptist. The burst of life ebbing and flowing, riverwater-and-blood, and she could sing nonsense just coasting on it. Not verses or hymns, of course, even with Peggie music being all-consuming whenever she’s near a radio she can’t absorb it (she’s immune now, those first five years of bullshit were good for something-- HA!), so it’s all nothing that means nothing.
And what better places to celebrate than the Spread Eagle? With her only brother, safe from the mountains (for now), the Pillars of Holland Valley, with Joey, and with Dane. People she’d kill for, nearly-die for (because she can’t die, it’s impossible, death is a non-possibility!), people who are worth the trouble and then some.
She’s perfectly sober, preferring the dizzying thrill of John’s death that still lingers, when she kisses Dane. Jemima doesn’t ask, but she gives him enough time -- she thinks she gives him enough time -- to say no, when she lingers for a long beat, two long beats, three long beats, staring wide-eyed without words because what does she need words for (for asking, of course, god), and she leans in slow, a calm heartbeat. She cradles his face gently, tender.
“... I should’ve asked first,” she laughs, suddenly shy, her stomach tight like she’s about to be sick (like the first time she kissed Solomon; maybe there’s a pattern, fear of commitment, if there’s anything after this), “sorry.”
