Her words catch on the edges of the table, tearing slightly and showing her intent.
Her face twitches with the arthropodal movements of a well trained liar.
Her legs travel for miles, smooth and silky - but they are warped by the deceit.
Simple words for a simple situation.
"Solve the case." "Payment in advance."
Dull. Tedious. Boring. But necessary. She touches my hand.
I can feel her heart rate - slow and steady, though her eyes dilate and spin like Catherine wheels in the cold dead night of her placid face.
Faking love at first sight.
I return the favour - I caress her face. A flash of teeth - jagged and predatory.
A true master in the art - she has hunted before, a leopard on the prowl, a spider in the web.
The rolled up newspaper of my denial works well enough.
I was sick of her anyway. Deluded. Tiresome. Too arachnidi a human to be honest.
A blast of neon yellow warps my horizon as I see a face all too familiar. I grin like a kid at Christmas and pour the wine.
It is always nice to see the beloved corpses walking - especially when they have yet to die. In this case, the sketch artist for the Suidaean hunters of the ever elusive truth.
Another death captured with ink and paper.
A pretty child, her life blood spilt upon the canvas of bitumen and paving stones out in that great outside, beyond my microcosmic hexagonal prismatic exile.
I refuse to leave my coffee machine.
My arm struggles to stay in the socket as she drags me out into the universe, through the blood red door and out into chaos.