[ The scent of smoking tobacco is something to draw her attention more than the noise. Not many in her circle smoke it, and it isn't to her favor, but it's still something other than the nothingness that pervades every space here when she travels alone. Spotting him long before he approaches—how kind of him, how gentlemanly—Vanessa is barely repressing a smile when he finds the nerve to speak.
The description was memorable indeed, but Heine did not mention his friend's choice in fashion. The gaze cast to her side takes in the phrase written across his shirt before letting her full attention settle on his face. Everything about a man is in how he moves, how he acts, but the soul is in the eyes. One is enough for her to draw in for her to better appraise. ]
...Wise words.
[ Whether she means his shirt or his weak attempt at small-talk (probably not the latter), she doesn't expand on. Instead, she steps away from the stone, but she doesn't approach him...tempting as it is.
Her own cigarette is promptly stubbed out against a gravestone (no reverence, no pity), and the last whistle of smoke curls into the summer air away while she considers him closely. What did he come for? She has doubts that Heine sent him, if he even knows. ]
Do you often approach strange women in graveyards, or are you a fan of Tennyson?
[ She doesn't suspect either case. It's impossible not to tease, though one may have trouble telling given the distant regard that her tone keeps. ]
no subject
The description was memorable indeed, but Heine did not mention his friend's choice in fashion. The gaze cast to her side takes in the phrase written across his shirt before letting her full attention settle on his face. Everything about a man is in how he moves, how he acts, but the soul is in the eyes. One is enough for her to draw in for her to better appraise. ]
...Wise words.
[ Whether she means his shirt or his weak attempt at small-talk (probably not the latter), she doesn't expand on. Instead, she steps away from the stone, but she doesn't approach him...tempting as it is.
Her own cigarette is promptly stubbed out against a gravestone (no reverence, no pity), and the last whistle of smoke curls into the summer air away while she considers him closely. What did he come for? She has doubts that Heine sent him, if he even knows. ]
Do you often approach strange women in graveyards, or are you a fan of Tennyson?
[ She doesn't suspect either case. It's impossible not to tease, though one may have trouble telling given the distant regard that her tone keeps. ]