[The young woman who approaches the bar with a sway to her hips as liquid as the rolling stalk of a cat across the top of a fence might know a thing or two about femme fatales. She leans against the edge of it just over an arm's length from Makima, tucking her short blonde hair behind the delicate shell of her ear, and murmurs an order to the bartender too quiet to be heard over the music.
It's then she looks sideways, eyebrows arched like a question, and Makima makes her perfectly pleasant greeting. Klaasje smiles at her, tiny and sweet and wan.]
And that's a reason not to dance?
[It's a gently frank question, an invitation to elaborate. She really wants to know.]
dancing shoes
It's then she looks sideways, eyebrows arched like a question, and Makima makes her perfectly pleasant greeting. Klaasje smiles at her, tiny and sweet and wan.]
And that's a reason not to dance?
[It's a gently frank question, an invitation to elaborate. She really wants to know.]