“Are you ever going to put that damn thing down?” he murmurs to her, adjusting the thing that he hides his face with. A line of reddish-orange trails down his flawless cheek where the side of the mask has cut into him, so perfect is its fitting to his face. His bared lower jawline rounded but firm, a bit sharp at the tip of the chin, but not too much, slides into her palm, the man of that auspicious bone nuzzling her fingers like one of the three-toed hind from the Northern Forest.
She hoods her eyes against the double-lights of their homeworld’s twin suns, then laughs and pulls long hands away again. “No. You gave it to me. I would sooner sell the sun.”
The man frowns, a grinning catshark upside down, his thin lips quirking as she flows from dance to dance.
“I did not. Give that. To you. Fail to succour me again and I may have to take measures.”
Her smooth body has been dancing in the daylight like this for hours. He has watched her for all of them.
A stone is in her hand, an unblemished egg-shaped stone on a small silver chain. Her silhouette catches it afire in the gleam of sunny daytime, and those fires leap from it, in licks of grass and egg yolk, of cloud and citrine and sky, of moonbeams and starshadow. Shafts of rainbow, they pour from her opening arms as she clutches the jewel to her white silked bosom and laughs at him where he sits still on the dark red grass.