His black lipstick tasted like anise and death. When her phone vibrated between them, he seized the device from the pocket in her shirt and held it up to a reveal a man in armor.
Pizarro was Facetiming her. The conquistador’s frantic figure appeared on the screen, waving arms overhead and making loud, excited, accusatory squawks. Mischief cursed and threw the phone onto the street; she heard a loud crunch as a cab ran over it. As the taxi drove past the Vespa, Catwoman rolled down the window and blew kisses to them where they sat, face to face, on his bike.
At a hipster club uptown, a Carly Rae Jepsen song from the previous summer pounded the floor and walls. The kids in the dance club screamed as Mischief took out a long horsewhip and cracked it over the deejay’s head, causing a blinding array of sparks and a complete change of playlist.
He was still angry, still a supervillain. There would be no miraculous change of heart, just as she could not hide the grey mouse-thing at the core of herself behind plugged-in skins, whether bought or borrowed.
Faith and Mischief danced to Praan all night long.
THE END
