“….BUT WE CANT ALL GET WHAT WE WANT, CAN WE,” snapped Snowman, deliberately not using an ashtray.
WQ scoffed. “If this is about the thing yesterday, you can forget it,” she sniffed, averting her gaze from Snowman’s attractively familiar features twisted into a defiant scowl, preferring instead to gaze through the window at the anachronistically quaint moonlit emerald cityscape.
“I don’t understand why you won’t tell anyone about us,” Snowman complained in a grating whine which filled WQ with bitter annoyance. “We can’t keep it a secret forever!”
“It’s just easier this way,” lied WQ. The truth was, she was afraid, but a Prospitian ruler was never afraid. She remained stiff-lipped and calm. “Whatever will people think?”
“I don’t care,” retorted Snowman childishly. “I hate you! Why isn’t that enough?”
WQ didn’t have an answer. “I hate you too,” she murmured. She meant it. Later, they would consummate their caliginous tryst with reckless abandon, and it would be pretty hot.
La Haine est un ivrogne au fond d’une taverne,
Qui sent toujours la soif naître de la liqueur
Et se multiplier comme l’hydre de Lerne
Mais les buveurs heureux connaissent leur vainqueur,
Et la Haine est vouée à ce sort lamentable
De ne pouvoir jamais s’endormir sous la table.