Small bitten-nailed fingers pluck out a card: ten of spades. She holds it out with an air of long-suffering. If you must. But she's distracted, by the cocoa, and by something else. She sets down her cards, face down and still fanned, to take a mug in both hands.
"Do you think it's going to thunder?" She knows something doesn't feel right.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2007-04-16 02:36 pm (UTC)"Do you think it's going to thunder?" She knows something doesn't feel right.