Attempting to lighten the mood, she remarks, “So shall I inspect the rest of you for that deformity? There’s clearly nothing wrong with your face.” She glances toward the door, toward the music and lights and bodies and madness. “Nobody’s going to come out here and bother us.”
“Shame on you for thinking there was,” Ace quipped playfully. As her own gaze drifted beyond the glass doors leading back inside, so did his. “They’re all too preoccupied to even think about it.” He found himself turning his head to face her once more.
“Faces can be deceptive,” she shoots back. “What about the rest of you? Covered in twisted scars, maybe, or zits, or ingrown hairs?” She can’t believe it’s her, saying these things, with even the faintest expectation of an answer. She’s high on the people, even not being in there with them; high on the carelessness and wildness. She might say anything, do anything, and it won’t matter.
But she still doesn’t step into his space.