Sally could hear her, yelling shit about split mattresses and how much it costed them to replace each and every one of them — turn the hotel into a decent place for tourists to crash into. But would she interrupt her morbid needlework and look up to actually pay attention to what Liz had to say? Cleopatra of all people should have known her better by now, goodness knew they all did. Inch after inch the mattress was being sewn back together, her hands working with delicate skill as she handled both needle and thread —— the passed out man ( halfway trapped inside and still coasting off an almost lethal dose of China White ), Sally’s personal marionette she would keep until death and time did what they knew best. “You don’t like it? There’s the fucking door.”
exasperationlaces expression, scalding tongue brought to a shocked halt. she should expect nothing less from their resident junkie, but the hope for letting sensible heads prevail clouded a narrow focus. headway had hardly been made on the renovation of this century - old hotel, &already, roadblocks began to pop out every way they turned –– sally, being a prime example. palms come to rest on shifted hips, brows lifting in evident disbelief. slow is her approach to the bed, hoping to somehow appeal to the girl. ❛ sally, please. be reasonable. stuffing people into mattresses isn’t the best way to go about companionship. ❜
