(Eve isn't much of an animal lover per say- she has trouble enough taking care of herself let alone a dog or cat- but she certainly isn't above appreciating something cute. A sugar glider had accosted her as she'd passed by under a tree in the park and she's holding it in both hands with the air of somebody who isn't at all sure how to hold something that small safely.)

Oh, uh– hello. (She isn't entirely sure why it's pink. Are sugar gliders usually pink? Eve is pretty sure they are brown, and isn't sure how to go about quantifying this in her brain just yet. Thankfully, there's a bench nearby. Eve attempts to get the glider to take a seat on that instead but it clings to her, digging into the sleeve of her shirt to stay onboard.) There you go– oh, come on.

(Another one comes to investigate her attempts: a third crawls up the leg of her jeans and reaches her coat, sticking its head into her jacket pocket. Eve gives the glider on her arm a good shake; it's stuck fast.) Wait– hey, stop, that isn't yours!

(The one on her jacket has found the bag inside her pocket and is ripping at the paper, trying to get at the croissant within.)

(Eve is very decidedly from a place that never has and never will be invaded by fireflies whose sting causes heightened emotions, so the initial bites don't worry her in the slightest. It's a warm summer evening, it's par for the course. Especially when you've got both arms out on display. It's whatever, she's got a glass of wine and she's sitting outdoors at a cute little restaurant and she's enjoyed her day exploring this– dream, or whatever this is.

It's been a good distraction.

A rush of guilt and sadness hits her with enough force that she tips her glass to her lips takes a huge swig, closing her eyes with a soft sigh. These thoughts are precisely what she's spent the day trying to ignore. The little flare of nervous energy manifests in her leg jiggling underneath the table, her fingertips tap tap tapping on its surface; when she reaches for her glass again, she accidentally knocks it down her front. Glancing down, the red stain on white fabric makes her stomach lurch. She shoots to her feet, hitting her knee on the table hard and sending her chair clattering onto its side.)

Oh crap–

	Friendr
«		»
	» Age: 41 » Seeking: Information, answers, and a huge glass of wine. » Preferences: Serial killers. Kidding. I'm married. » Interests: Research, sticking my nose where it doesn't belong. Uh... yoga? » Bio: I said trouble wasn't interested in me, but turns out I was wrong. Hate it when that happens.
	base code by photosynthesis
	Eve Polastri
	« ✘ ✔ »