Post by rozália katona on Feb 2, 2018 23:55:14 GMT
i'm fired up and tired of the way that things have been.
Rozália wondered, for a moment— a moment so fleeting it could hardly pass as distinguished — for what reason she had thrown herself into such a thing as the haute couture culture of Salem. She knew, in her own way, that she was attractive enough, though perhaps lacked the certain level of pretension required of a model in such an industry. However, high society meant reaping a much higher benefit than a simple con— maybe, even, it would add credibility to her name.
[break][break]
“Oh, I’m a model now, haven’t you heard?” she mused to herself, slicing cheek with a borderline lascivious curl of lip; yes, perhaps that would do.
[break][break]
She had already been whisked among the flurry of designers flitting about, touching parts of her she hadn’t cared to think of as requiring adjustment, coating her features in nothing more than a flattering press of delight. They had even dressed her, though Rozália couldn’t help but question the taste of the clothing line— it was nice enough, she would concede, though perhaps it was simply above her own paycheck for her to give too much of a damn.
[break][break]
And so there she sat, in her chair facing a mirror, admiring the curl of her hair and the rose of her cheeks, the spider knitted lashes and the plucked brows. All she truly wanted, however, was a bite to eat— and, with a push, she dismounted, heels rhythmically hitting the hardwood as she sashayed to where the hors d'oeuvres could be found; perhaps then she could strike a conversation to curb her own definite disinterest in the mild panic of the hairdressers.
[break][break]
“Oh, I’m a model now, haven’t you heard?” she mused to herself, slicing cheek with a borderline lascivious curl of lip; yes, perhaps that would do.
[break][break]
She had already been whisked among the flurry of designers flitting about, touching parts of her she hadn’t cared to think of as requiring adjustment, coating her features in nothing more than a flattering press of delight. They had even dressed her, though Rozália couldn’t help but question the taste of the clothing line— it was nice enough, she would concede, though perhaps it was simply above her own paycheck for her to give too much of a damn.
[break][break]
And so there she sat, in her chair facing a mirror, admiring the curl of her hair and the rose of her cheeks, the spider knitted lashes and the plucked brows. All she truly wanted, however, was a bite to eat— and, with a push, she dismounted, heels rhythmically hitting the hardwood as she sashayed to where the hors d'oeuvres could be found; perhaps then she could strike a conversation to curb her own definite disinterest in the mild panic of the hairdressers.
271 WORDS FOR kaelin ó'coileáin, reine voss, Holly Anderson, saoirse ó floinn ― time to attack the shop...heck
by sixsmith.
