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Kinga Voytek.
He runs the name against the spongy matter of his brain. It fires neurons, sparking like two ends of a wire meeting. He has never met someone called Kinga but the name suits her perfectly like a hand slipping comfortably into a glove. A home, snug and warm.
Her stare is a glower that challenges. She sucks in her cheeks, highlighting the elegant shape of skin against bone. Even as her grins shrinks, mirth dances in her eyes. She drops her hand from his and leans back, tilts herself at an angle. Sizes him up.
He's forgotten himself. Clay's silence lingers uncomfortably long, he's staring. There's only atmosphere between them. That and the hum of the car behind her, left running in the parking bay. Clay coughs to clear his throat, which has become taut, thick with words left unsaid. He's sure he hears her hum beneath her breath.
"You already know my name," he says.
He's inviting her to clarify why but she plays ignorant. Her dark brows scrunch together in a confusion that is theatrical, as if she doesn't know what he could possibly be talking about. She open her lips and he braces himself for the impact, but whatever she has to say dies on her lips as Costa stalks towards them.
"That one yours?" Costa asks. He doesn't register anything is amiss, evidently he really was scanning the appointments book. No doubt he caught the question marks Clay left the day prior. Kinga nods, glancing over her shoulder towards the car. Clay's eyes remain stationed firmly on her movements.
"All mine." She says, a spark of mischief in her tone.
"What's the problem with it? Seems to be running just fine." Costa comments, rolling bony shoulders.
"There's a light on that won't turn off." Kinga replies. "It runs sluggish. It makes a noises. Like a snake."
She whistles to enunciate her point. It's weak and reedy, but something tells Clay she's perfectly capable of more.
"I'll back it up for you then." Costa replies, dark brows risen. Clay sees the older man's eyes dart to him as he passes. There's a question written in the fine lines of his face. What's her deal? Clay wouldn't know how to begin to answer.
