agora ✫ now that you feel, you say it's not real.
There is a tall young lady in the Agora. This is nothing spectacular, although said young lady is unusually dressed up; her coat is tucked over a chair nearby, and her arms are loosely folded across her chest as she leans against the wall, like maybe she's a bit cold, but still hasn't moved to pick up her furs again (to tell the truth, even though they're vintage and therefore as ethical as that sort of thing can be, they kind of creep her out). Her hair was at one point carefully pinned up, presumably, but has become just a little tousled, and it's probably about four AM in her London home right now, but Hasibe is wide-awake. Smiling, even, although just slightly, secretively, like she knows something and it's both a touch sad and entertaining, but the rest of her mannerisms are guileless- maybe deliberately so.
"A couple of questions for you all tonight," she begins, briefly thumbing the edge of the choker around her neck to adjust its fit, "First- all right, everyone has a type, yes? In whatever sex you may prefer, or both, you know what I mean. What's yours? And how important do you think these types are? -- I don't, to answer my own little meandering line of inquiry here, find them to be hugely important, but you get these guys who say "I only like redheads with blue eyes" or some such thing, and it just seems so limiting to me. Also in that instance it seems to be code for "I only like white girls," which is definitely limiting."
There's a pause.
"And- does anyone have a light? I seem to have misplaced mine."
(And she always does it manually- she likes lighters, they're cute accessories.)