(no subject)
Veronica sits by the Observation Window, ignoring the crowds of the bar in favour of the swirling stars.
She leans back in one chair with her feet up on another, and winds a little twist of pink ribbon about the fingers of one hand. Absently, she plays with it, coiling it about one finger or another, tying it in knots and untying it, running her thumb over its frayed edges.
All the while, whenever it is free, her other hand taps a steady beat on the table top: the noise is like a pulse, or like clockwork, and her fingers jerk to it as though they have some personal vendetta with the furniture.
She leans back in one chair with her feet up on another, and winds a little twist of pink ribbon about the fingers of one hand. Absently, she plays with it, coiling it about one finger or another, tying it in knots and untying it, running her thumb over its frayed edges.
All the while, whenever it is free, her other hand taps a steady beat on the table top: the noise is like a pulse, or like clockwork, and her fingers jerk to it as though they have some personal vendetta with the furniture.