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"You cut your hair."
She has? She has.
It's been a few years since Jessica started cutting it shorter; reaching the ends of her shoulders rathar than the vague level to her back. No particular reason she can recall for why the hair length she always tolerated (not necessarily took care of) has suddenly become like the most uncomfortable thing.
It reminds her of how she used to eat bags of sour candy and push it down with a Dr. Pepper as a kid, and nothing about that bizarre mixture of flavors felt wrong, until one day it did.
She frowns; emphasizing the deep line that had taken its usual place between her eyebrows whenever someone says something that sounds particularly stupid to her (which is too often, perhaps).
She considers when was the last time she and the Devil of Hell's Kitchen had seen each other, or when she had seen him at least, and then her head started hurting. It's too late in the evening for that kind of shit. But perhaps, maybe, probably, it's safe to say that the last time they spoke— was since he 'died'.
But with her almost empty flask, and the long day she had, she doesn't feel like bringing up this particular piece of trivia.
"Fine, I'll bite. What makes you so sure?"
she says with a bored expression, like she doesn't even want to hear his answer, she really doesn't.
The devil almost catches up to her pace, as she continues to walk over the roofs of a few stacked buildings. Two more and she' ll get to the perfect spot right in front of the hotel room of her client's cheating spouse.
"You mean, how can I tell appearances for sure?"
He asks, with a particular smugness he often shows when he's about to say something annoying. And surely enough—
"Well, you see.. I usually hear the sound of your leather jacket softly rustling at the middle of your back, which is exactly how long your hair used to be, and now it doesn't."
The horned devil gleams proudly— like he's just explained to a child how a bird can fly or some very normal, non weird shit.
"Aha. Maybe I tied it up."
She stops and angles her camera right where the room's curtains are slightly open. Man, if they're so eager to cheat, why can't they ever learn to be discreet. A receipt for a hotel called "Love's Haven" doesn't exactly scream monogamy when your wife finds it in your jacket's front pocket— dumbass.
The devil sits to her left, his feet dangling over the rooftop with a level of amusement she cannot comprehend.
She suddenly thinks of how every criminal in Hell's Kitchen is terrified by the mere mention of his name, it makes her smirk.
He shakes his head slowly.
"No, it's not tied up. It's shorter."
He is right— but she hates that he is, hates him for thinking this is somehow important enough to bug her about, like he had just seen her yesterday and is out of things to say. she hates herself even more for getting used the idea of him at one point of her life, and then having to demnish it all under the rubble of midland circle.
She also simply refuses to indulge him by asking the important questions when he should.
Jessica rolls her eyes hard, knowing that his crazy senses could pick that up too somehow.
He opens his mouth to say something, but then he pauses and turns his head away; as if he's suddenly lacking the nerve to sense her next reaction.
"I know it's shorter also because— the way the wind brushes it off your neck, and how easily it carries your scent. "
She either caught the devil blushing for saying 'your scent', or the Love's Haven comicly big neon sign is shining too bright. Either way, she shouldn't care, she doesn't.
"Right, ok. So poetic. Is everyone who rises from the dead awful at flirting, or is this just a you thing?" she says, as she snaps a couple of pics for her client, and perhaps one more of the cheating pig— greedily rubbing his hands together like a cartoon character as his mistress undresses. She'd add it to her photo collection of the 'dumbest cheaters of the year'.
He barks a laugh after a long pause; and somehow the whole scenery of the devil laughing, as two people committing adultery— and perhaps a dozen more in that tacky hotel— seemed too biblical for her taste.
"I'm really glad you're well, Jessica."
He smiles gently, giving a pause before her name— like it was so important for her to hear all the inflections of it. She finally turns to look at him for a long second.
"Fuck you, asshole".
She turns back to her camera, and snaps one more photo, but of a closed dark window; reflecting the red light of the hotel's sign, and the devil's beaming grin.
He'd try to smash her camera again if he ever found out, but let him try and see what happens this time. Maybe she'd finally add 'kicking a blind guy's ass' to list of her sins.
-fin