Some pretty girl with pink hair (
luka chêne ) says
you can really taste the tannins and it makes Cyg giggle-- not a mean laugh, or a haughty one, but a true, honest-to-god, girly giggle, like the kind found rampant at slumber parties and bachelorettes.
“Yes. I do love some tannins.” And she really wasn’t hating on the wine, okay! It just wasn’t her poison of choice.
“Oh, god, I hope not,” Cyg says on the back end of her giggle, when
luka chêne asks if Dahlia might see these,
“because I think she’d have me exiled. Strip me of my citizenship.” Because what Cyg was doing on that canvas right now was a horror.
Some fancy looking woman with purple hair sat down next to @nikita and started busting out
her own shit-- and that was what Cyg was looking at, two seconds away from making some stupid comment about
okay, I like it, Picasso when she noticed Nikita’s arm. And she hadn’t even seen it at first because she was talking about the stupid wine and the party and-- holy shit. Holy
shit.
She was staring.
Stop staring, Cygne. She forced her eyes back to her canvas where the line of Dahlia’s chin wobbled as though nervous.
It was
beautiful.
She forced herself to look somewhere, anywhere else, but was determined to corner the woman and confront her about it later. In an entirely professional manner, of course.
“Councilwoman,” she said, all prim and official, greeting
Elinor Anderson in a mock salute that left a drop of yellow paint in her hair,
“glad you could find a second to come blaspheme with us regulars.”She leaned over then to peer at
Elisabeth Fiorelli ’s canvas.
“It looks great!” She said, giving her a thumbs up. Then, to @nikita , she flashed a grin (
don’t look at her arm don’t look at her arm) and joked,
“D’you think she’s like Bloody Mary and if we say her name three times into the mirror while spinning she’ll appear?” And, listen, Cyg wasn’t so focused on her god-damn arm because it was a prosthetic and it was weird. She was so focused on her goddamn arm because it was one
hell of a prosthetic, and it was
incredible.
A girl in shaky heels that looked weirdly familiar in a way that Cyg couldn’t place (
Rowan Wrynn ) joined the circle; Cyg greeted the newcomer with a tilt of her glass, then drained it, and lifted it up for a refill.
Then someone who was
definitely just
priam conrad in makeup came in and Cyg laughed, feeling giddy and floaty and wine-drunk and sure, yeah, she had pre-gamed a bit with rum shots in advance to kill the nerves. But she wasn’t about to shit on his parade so she lifted him her glass, too, in greeting.
Melody Miro jumped up and almost tackled the familiar-looking girl as she obnoxiously squeed about the bathroom.
“I told you this would be a good time,” she said, aside, to
Elisabeth Fiorelli , as
oscar clayton joined them.
The more she drank of it, the more she was fine with the wine, but she accepted the cake with a gremlin-like cackle, thanking the Mime adjacent that brought it and taking a big bite.
“Not as good as the kind we can make,” she said, again to Elisabeth. She polished the cake off in record time and was going to go back to her poor attempt at painting when there was a huge commotion and Madame What’s-her-butt scolded the influx of blonde ladies with tardiness. Then, in an absolutely ridiculous turn of events, she turned to Cygne and Elisa and urged them to get off their asses and
work, bitch. She even gently slapped Cyg’s shoulder with the back of her hand.
“Fuck me,” she said, giggling again,
“I mean, I guess. Sure. Why the fuck not.” She slammed her wine, waved her hand in her face a little bit, then set the glass back down. On her way to join the crowd of life models, she hipchecked the guard hassling the boys.
“Leave them alone. It’s supposed to be a fun night. Let them have fun.”
