her head of long, silver faery-witch locks in our direction.

circuitous

Looks stoned most of the time, as if she is perpetually enveloped in opium smoke.

She looks down the street as though she’s waiting for a taxi that will arrive and whisk her away any minute now. The street is dark, empty, aside from a few scared-looking undergrads walking quickly down the sidewalk, huddled together, their coiffed heads bent, purse logos shimmering in the dark.

obscenely beautiful

“I’m very impressed by your piece this week. You’ve been doing a lot of emotional growth, lately, that’s clear.”

her voice like a thick mist,

Fosco calls in her usual booming voice

aiming their gazes at each other like guns—all