sanzv
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Woolen coats, a summer house in the French Riviera. Being rude to your neighbours and a weightlessness to life, tied down to her and nothing else.
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“Get the fuck out of my kitchen.”
She squints, “I’m sorry, what?”
“You heard me, get the fuck out. Did Carolyn send you? Tell her I don’t need whatever this is. You can kindly fuck right back to some place that charges £500 for a plate of caviar, please.”Or,
Villanelle is a Michelin-starred chef who's decided to apply for the vacant spot in Eve's kitchen. Eve is being normal about this.
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The two of you sway, no rhythm, a one-two-three of somebody else’s music. You lean in and she lets you. Small miracles.
Or, unsurprisingly, inopportune flirting is the only constant of every parallel universe that Villanelle has yet encountered.
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“Eve, I was wondering,” you say, reveling in the way everybody stops what they’re doing to listen, “If we had another kid, what would the probability of it also turning out gay be?”
“Gross,” Irina and Bor’ka groan together.
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“So?” Her voice is rough.
“So what?”
“What did you think of the funeral?”
“Oh, it was very boring. I’m interested to see if you will make it more exciting by calling the entire CIA on me this time.”
Recent bookmarks
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It’s the weekend of Harper and Abby’s wedding, and this event has everything: ostentatious displays of New England wealth; bridal party brunches; themed cocktails; canapés; moonlit swims in the nude; exquisite torture; cold pizza; gas station popsicles; a copy of Machiavelli’s “The Prince”; a bruise on Sloane Caldwell’s shoulder that matches the dental records of one Riley Bennett.