An observation. They were cutting hearts out, and you never know what someone's into.

[She can remember the gun, now. Vague images, a fucked up little imagination for everyone to see. He's arrogant, she thinks. Dangerous. He thinks he's powerful; he thinks he's important.

She sits back, doesn't bother to tighten the knot of her towel. Lets it go loose, lets it start to fall away. She tilts her head a little, eyes him again. Gives him a proper once over, a final consideration. ] You're not going to get a gun here. Not a real one. They might carve you a wooden one. Or blow you a glass one.