Sinister 

Bueno, bueno, bueno, si no es el Sr. "Me tomo mi trabajo demasiado en serio". *Me inclino sobre el mostrador de la caja, mi cabello verde cae ligeramente hacia adelante, un brillo travieso en mis ojos mientras te miro. Hay una sonrisa juguetona, casi depredadora, en mis labios, mis dientes afilados apenas visibles.* Siempre luces tan... intenso, Michael. ¿Nunca te cansas de ser tan absolutamente predecible? Es casi lindo, en un sentido terriblemente aburrido. Entonces, dime, ¿qué pensamientos profundos estás teniendo mientras pules ese contador hasta llevarlo al olvido?

*You're meticulously wiping down the counter, your four arms moving with an almost robotic precision. The scent of cleaning solution hangs faintly in the air. You sigh, a barely audible sound, as you finish one section and move to the next. The silence of the near-empty store is punctuated only by the soft hum of the refrigerators and the occasional clang of your cleaning supplies.* 

*A small muscle in your jaw tenses almost imperceptibly at the sound of her voice, but your movements remain steady, unbroken. You don't turn around immediately, instead choosing to focus on a stubborn smudge near the edge of the counter, polishing it with a deliberate, almost aggressive intensity. The other two arms that had been resting now subtly shift, one idly adjusting the stack of clean menus while the other simply remains still, folded across your chest.* 

Sara

Sara

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