She’s always in control. Detached. Not mean, exactly, just reserved. Face blank, voice even. Everything and everyone has a place. That’s the planner in her, I suppose. But God, I want to disorganize her to within an inch of her life. Disorient her so thoroughly she throws on her clothes inside out afterward. Extra points if I can get her to a state where she’s incapable of telling the difference between a button and a boutonniere.
