As in:
By the way she sat, teetering in her chair against the wall, occasionally sending jets of breath up to clear her drooping, auburn bangs from her eyes, you could tell that Marass had more on her mind than she disclosed. But you couldn’t tell whether it was contempt, or shyness, or even if her icy exterior was hiding a warm person waiting for the right moment to share cookies and milk. Most of those who filtered in and sat in the desks around her were content to let her reveal her true self at whatever pace she chose. But Lester “Sticky” Adkins would have none of that. To him, quiet ones like Marass were like piñatas that he, by his own nature, had to take a stick to.
He began, on Tuesday, by making fun of her waist, which she knew to be quite fine, thank you, and she didn’t take the bait.
“That’s not your real color, is it?” he pressed about her hair on Wednesday.
On Thursday he took aim at her shoes and wondered if some Dutch boy was missing his wooden clogs.
And that’s when they all discovered that Marass could use strings of words like a flagellum to snap off the heads of her prey.
“Listen, you head lice breathing, mental dwarf with taco meat for brains, just shut it before your pancreas gets a close-up look at my toe.”
Lester leaned back, wide-eyed, as if his ears were ringing.
“Damn,” he said. “You’re loaded aren’t you?”
No comments yet.