[She follows him down the dusty hall, and when they come to the door she waits as he opens it, and steps out into the light. It's early enough no one is here, no one is likely to be here for a while. Her bundle of muddy and wet things lands with a plop on the floor, and she looks down at her clothes. They're sticking to her skin in places, the white of her shirt vaguely see-through.]
I don't even want to know what my hair looks like.
no subject
I don't even want to know what my hair looks like.
[Muddy and stringy, that's how.]