It’s not until Kavinsky is eating his sandwich that Ronan recognizes the smell: gasoline. The shower and the sweet-sour mayonnaise smell have cut it now, but Ronan still looks around. No open flames in Monmouth.
Not yet, anyway.
But Kavinsky is different in as many ways as he’s the same. It could be the trauma of rebirth or just… fucking sobriety. He’s fighting Chainsaw over a rind edge of sliced ham. She doesn’t bite him, and his fingers flex short of her eyes.
Abruptly, they both look at him. Dream creatures, one black and one chalk-white, greying in the dawn.
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[3/?]
Not yet, anyway.
But Kavinsky is different in as many ways as he’s the same. It could be the trauma of rebirth or just… fucking sobriety. He’s fighting Chainsaw over a rind edge of sliced ham. She doesn’t bite him, and his fingers flex short of her eyes.
Abruptly, they both look at him. Dream creatures, one black and one chalk-white, greying in the dawn.