<strong>Emily Fitzgerald</strong><br/><strong>Location</strong>: The apartment, her room, door open, front door locked<br/><strong>Tag</strong>: John<br/><hr/>She doesn't flinch as John rubs her arm, her eyes dilated wide like saturnine pools.  "You don't have to do any of... this," she touches his mouth with her hand, the smooth, round tip of one manicured nail trailing the swell of his lower lip.  "This... almost talking, it's not real."  She turns her hand to stroke her small knuckle along the line of his jawbone.  "You don't have to try to answer everything."<br/><br/>She leans back a few steps, lets her eyes unfocus at her reflection in the scrolled-frame mirror atop the art-deco dresser, her mind there on the image of John and her together, and also somewhere else, sending a message to her small friends... for followers... or kin, whatever they are.<i>Go home, all is well.</i><br/><br/>"John," she says softly, "check  Sully's and Maria's-- you'll find them together, with Renault."  She unzips the hooded sweatshirt down over her breasts, a steady mechanical hum until it clicks open and free.  "I'll text Kumari..." she breaks back half a step, her stance casual, neck angled back and steps like a theatrically-hypnotized conspirator, until she locks eyes with John once again.  She steps into the adjoining bathroom, her running shoes softly echoing from hardwood floor to tile.  "It was a good run today," she says, "bet you could use a shower."<br/><br/>Her green tank top, and a black polyester piece of cloth that, upon inspection, looks to be a sports bra, tumble out the open door into her bedroom floor, skidding to a halt beside the ivory-colored wicker hamper, where sunlight falls across in slanted bars through the half-closed blinds.  A moment later, one long-fingered, freckled hand wraps around the wooden door and places her still-clean cargo pants at the edge of the hamper-- the slim, freckled arm delivering it casually and lazily.  "Don't leave your clothes on the floor, please?"