homeless.

[tore]

It was swell of you to say hello. (This is novel, isn't it? Is this what it's like to feel young?)

I would like to move out, though. I'm a little peckish.

Regards,
Mr. —

Comments

[tore]

[ Mr. — seems pleasantly surprised at being told he's likeable in the least (not because he tries not to be or anything of the sort, but because she's saying so while knowing exactly what he is). At the question, he nods and shrugs, as if this routine were perfectly natural. (Correction: it is. For him.) ]

Always, [ he says easily, glancing once at the houses that surround them. ] I think it's the polite thing to do. [ His inflection is careful, making the sentence almost a question. ]

[starve]

[ She watches him for a moment and then glances around herself, her eyes growing large as if in question as her gaze takes the same path that his did, noting this house then the next. Famine doesn't really enjoy fucking around for fucking's sake (for others it was cool, but for a harbinger it was just lame) but for Mr. — she decides to give a nudge here, a suggestion there. Pieces moving into place — curiosity, loneliness, the need for company. These are all hungers and so they are all hers and so she uses them to place her new-found friend at an advantage.

Doors will open more readily to him now. And when they do, he'll feed and feed well. ]

And you're big on polite, huh?