An impulse purchase if ever there had been one.



On very few occasions had the demure little redhead ever dared allowed herself such impulsive extravagance, forays into the realm of the monetarily frivolous. On very few occasions had she ever fallen victim to the clever marketer, his tricks of the eye or shameless appeal to the vanity that squatted, no matter how subtly, within the minds and hearts of all women. And yet here she stood, twisting about to examine her own lower half... a lower half that was clad in a brand new, perfectly exquisite and embarrassingly pricey, pair of jeans. The denim was beautifully dark-washed, clinging to every feminine curve that Isolt would never have admitted to actually possessing; the allure of the expertly crafted garment had proven too much for even the ever-weary redhead to possibly forgo. And so, swallowing all of her not-inconsiderable anxieties and forking over more than she would have ever admitted to aloud, they were hers.



The rather cacophonous exclamation of her name finally succeeded in breaking the spell woven by the rather critical examination of her back side, causing the beginnings of a smirk to tug curiously at the brims of her plump crimson lips. Padding into the living room, Isolt must wage a silent battle against the chortle that tickles so jauntily at the back of her throat. Rarely ever does Harley digress into such bouts of juvenile melancholy, her usual persona a near-perfect balancing act of venomous sarcasm and a seemingly unending supply of contemptuous wit. However, on the festive occasion upon which these moods shifts did occur, Isolt must gird herself against the tantalizing draw to giggle at the expense of her dearest companion. Her smile only broadens, blossoming into something gorgeously innocent as she perches herself, chin resting delicately atop her folded hands, upon the back of their worn leather sofa. "I only feel old when you start talking like we're two ancient biddies tucked away in our house with nothing to keep ourselves company besides each other and our hoard of cats," she quipped, finally allowing the mere suggestion of a chuckle to pass her lips.



Her brow scrounges comically at the raven-haired woman's next comment, the faux-solemn shake of her head sending a cascade of gossamer curls swaying. "Our life is not half as boring as you make it out to be. And I, for one, am not about to 'let my youth rot away'," she offered with perhaps more confidence than she was actually privy to even at this particular moment. Silently she pads around the couch, standing before her companion. "Now you can either sit here and regale me with tales of your library ventures, which I don't believe for a moment, OR we can go to the festival downtown." A single expertly-manicured brow is pitched skyward, a titillating bit of bait flung into the void between the two women. And yet just as quickly as this fledgling confidence has blossomed it seems to wilt and wither, a thought sprouting once more upon the forefront of her brain, Isolt swiveling about on the spot to turn her back to her counterpart. "Be honest... do these jeans make my butt look fat?"