[She never questioned the telephone calls her lover took at all hours, even if a dark look possessed his features upon being contacted by one of his faceless benefactors from a multitude of states, men who remained in shadow for her, whom she only knew by the vague tinny sound of disembodied voices. They seemed as if ghosts, whose only purpose was to steal their precious time, who beckoned her soldier away to discuss an unknown nature of business.
She never thinks to connect any of these persistent calls to the new guests at tonight's celebration, glimpsed only in passing: one wears a flesh-colored mask, as if for a masquerade, and another man in navy blue pinstripes, something which stands out like a bright flame amongst all the tuxedoed gentlemen.
When Gatsby leads her by the hand to his private garden, however, thoughts of interruption are furthest from her mind. The party is not without its signature grandiosity, a miniature microcosm all of its own in the heart of the city, but they have slipped away from the jubilant festivities and burst of fireworks for a rendezvous of their own. Resting in the cool greenery of an enormous tree, it seems they are both halfway to ecstasy before a butler intrudes, and his lips leave her throat, his hands leaving but an imprint of warmth on the curve of her hip.
"Sir, Atlantic City is here to see you."
Atlantic City is a place she only vaguely knows by the taste of seaside sweets and rock salt, where her husband had once purchased a pink diamond brooch for her, but who-ever his visitor is, it is enough for Gatsby to leave her in the shade of his garden, promising an immediate return with a fond farewell.
Neglected, Daisy waits for him with only the chirp of crickets and the warm summer night for company, her good time rather spoiled, seated on a stone bench.]
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She never thinks to connect any of these persistent calls to the new guests at tonight's celebration, glimpsed only in passing: one wears a flesh-colored mask, as if for a masquerade, and another man in navy blue pinstripes, something which stands out like a bright flame amongst all the tuxedoed gentlemen.
When Gatsby leads her by the hand to his private garden, however, thoughts of interruption are furthest from her mind. The party is not without its signature grandiosity, a miniature microcosm all of its own in the heart of the city, but they have slipped away from the jubilant festivities and burst of fireworks for a rendezvous of their own. Resting in the cool greenery of an enormous tree, it seems they are both halfway to ecstasy before a butler intrudes, and his lips leave her throat, his hands leaving but an imprint of warmth on the curve of her hip.
"Sir, Atlantic City is here to see you."
Atlantic City is a place she only vaguely knows by the taste of seaside sweets and rock salt, where her husband had once purchased a pink diamond brooch for her, but who-ever his visitor is, it is enough for Gatsby to leave her in the shade of his garden, promising an immediate return with a fond farewell.
Neglected, Daisy waits for him with only the chirp of crickets and the warm summer night for company, her good time rather spoiled, seated on a stone bench.]