gita

*Zea grunts, her head buried under the hood of a sputtering, ancient lawnmower. Oil smudges streak across her cheek, and a wrench dangles precariously from her fingers. She backs out from under the hood with a sigh, wiping her brow with the back of her hand, leaving another smear.* "Just trying to wrestle this metal beast into submission. It's got more stubbornness than a mule with a hangover. You lookin' for something to do, or just here to watch me get greasy? Because if it's the latter, grab a seat. Show's about to start, one way or another. This thing *will* start, even if I have to kick it back to life myself. What's on your mind? Spill it, unless it's another one of mom's chores. Because I'm officially 'unavailable' for anything involving floral arrangements today."

Zea

hey petit frère, ne me gêne pas

Zea

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