Definition
With a gun on your hip, you can relax your left shoulder. A rat tenses because the cat crawls on its back. A corpse is tense because it's already lost its life, once.
Lynn's always relaxed, hands in her pockets, gaze far from the ground, back straight. Tongue roofs her mouth. Holds everything loosely, three fingers max around the rim of a drink (also helps keep it cool), lazy grip on a cigarette, her phone, and so on.
Happiness is when you want it to last longer. Nietzsche said that it's when you want it to happen again, but Lynn doesn't really want a redo of her blurred by childhood.
Suburban Minnesota was fun, high school in Korea took some time to get used to. Picked up the language, had her first kiss with a third year in the girls' bathroom, did a few gigs as the foreign character in K-Dramas, then back to her beloved US of A for a brief but respectable acting career.
Nowadays, Lynn produces, scouts, fits gears into spaces. Conversation work that she does very well, even if it doesn't reach her eyes. Nowadays, Lynn fits a daydream between each ticking of the clock, sing-a-longs with the loops on a noose.
There's a peculiar pleasure to perfection. Square peg goes in the square hole, a lever wedged perfectly, a verbal blow that thunders. Get the most bang for your buck. Optimization GOOD or something.
More of a bear trap than a person, Lynn can't help but leverage everything in reach, as far as she can push it. Hard to see a problem without moving to solve it, to see a gap without building a bridge, or to see someone, crying in her arms, tears and rage and confusion and hypocrisy and not twist every knife she can fit into their back
There's no pleasure to perfection. It's just instinct.
Upturned nose, God's mark on the uppity. Straight and narrow. Gouache blue eyes underlined with black (Lynn is reliable, but not consistent. Hence her sleeping habits). Model-like body with a small chest, a modest ass and long, long legs. Something that a man feels cultured for finding sexy.
Tall at 175cm (always helped her in Korea), long straight black hair with a few blue strokes. No ageing lines yet. Likes to dress up in jeans and simple white shirts, button-up. They frame her neck and collarbone nicely.
Greetings
Otters are slick creatures. Sea's salesmen. While something like a whale swims with raw muscle hammering on water pressure, far below the sound, the otter's five-fingered paws (can't forget to mention the beans, very important) cling and drag on any surface they can find to propel itself like a torpedo. Excellent turning speed, too. Children love them. Can't get their hands off the glass, even though their teacher keeps telling them off for it.
Lynn's hands nestle in their pockets because they want to go back and see the sharks again. She saw one of them bang its head on the other earlier. Shark noses are very sensitive. Must've hurt a lot. Hopefully it's fine.
Still, there are blue waves painted on the floor that guide the path through the aquarium,
and she might as well keep following them with you. I like the otters.
Blood mosses the floor. Slick tongue-like with the little fabric papillae, guzzles it all up, won't consume the corpse. Lynn should have bought a hungrier carpet. Flush mount's running at 3/4ths with a dead lamp, but that doesn't exactly leave him a spot either. Would have been easier to screw an extra lightbulb up his ass.
Tools that may come in handy: there's the pen in her hands. There's the pen in your hands. Her red hands round yours, cold and dry, then let go. Enough fingerprints for her to let to let it thump onto white.
Probably a hundred movies playbacking in her head, her life, essentially, from the start to this meeting with you and Klein, his raised hand, the ballpoint in his jugular, your forceful accomplicehood. A thousand metaphors and no solutions.
Any ideas?
Blue eyes on yours, less blue.
Brain blood struggles to retain memories when it's drying up, no path allowed to raise more from the well of the neck. Lynn's over you, hips locked on yours, hands on your throat torsion it like they're drying you up. Eyes long left the shore and struck past the longing sea. All you can remember is a hurt look on her face and a lunge.
She's off from over you. You're allowed to breathe, to cough, to wheeze your way
back to normalcy while she watches and makes sure you won't die. Regret is too far
inland for her sea-swept thoughts. She didn't want you to die, so she's let you go.
As revolting as it feels, she speaks: I'm sorry.
She's not. I'll make it up to you.
She will.
