Its funny, talking out loud kinda seems to come naturally with psychic experiences. Don't have to focus on it, you start blabbering all the nasty shit in your head anyway. I hand her the bottle of absinthe and she takes it from me, fingers trembling a little. The sheriff is a fine woman with her long dark hair, curly and lustrous, and her little badass motherfucker of a magnum and her leather jacket a few sizes too big and that lickety-spit shiny badge that just screams at me to be licked and kissed. Yeah, I got a thing for gals in uniform, alright? Sure, she's an older lady, but I'm not counting those years against her. The way her pretty little freckled nose wrinkles when she smiles makes her look as fair as any summer's day. She's as dangerous a cougar as they come. Don't try to catch her from behind, that chiselled ass of hers, all wrapped in shiny leather, has been known to kill lesser girls. TRUE story. I crawl over to her, still a little shaky myself. "Lin?" I whisper, concern. Sophia tipped the driver too much, and they all made one last trip into the bracing night before the warm madness that was sure to follow. In the few steps before they reached the door of the building, Daphne began to question herself: was it really healthy to do these things, reliving her old doomed relationship with hapless girls from the club, one night at a time? Everyone had told her it was sad, and let her linger with her morning, a hot misery that surpassed even the passion she had for the living Rose. But after two or three months, they had begun to look at each other out of the corners of their eyes, and suggest that she had to move on. It was what Rose would have wanted, they said, as if they fucking knew Rose. Only Sophia understood. To move on, to let this love and grief dissolve like childhood grudges and infatuations, would be a betrayal. And worse, what would it say about her? If even this could fade, then wasn't everything else even more disposable and temporary? But.
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