“Lighting it, he hands it over. I take a drag. It’s asphalt and moonlight, better than the soup.”
“Max’s deep-set eyes narrow. They’re darker than gold, lighter than bronze. The color of an elegant brass rail in a speakeasy. Or, better still, of a pocket watch that’s been taken out and consulted over a few generations.”
“The old bird is in the market for fresh feathers.”
“Her long hair undulates, glossy and black as piano keys, and her shockingly full lips part company in dismay.”
“Of course she isn’t like us, look at her,” Blossom snaps, making a balletic orbit with her empty hand. “That doesn’t mean she’s like them. Think for a moment. If you can. A frog isn’t like a flamingo. That doesn’t make it a hippopotamus.””