[There's a risk, in uttering his name. As if, just by speaking of him, she might reveal her adoration in how she forms the letters, how she cradles that familiar name and the very sound of it makes her voice flutter in high notes. No one, she is tentatively certain, saw her and the host of this lavish soiree disappear off into the greenery for quite a length of time, and even if someone had—well, he cannot possibly connect the name to the man. After all, as everyone is so fond of repeating, Gatsby is a man of many rumors, and no one has ever seen his face.
He sits a short distance from her, and mentally, she is still trying to navigate how much is respectful and how much would be scandalous. Not that there is anything warranting scandal about them, having an innocent conversation, but—people talk. They say her lover is the son of an evil king, a man who kills for fun, a murderer, cruel and ruthless to the bone—and if gossipers knew of their relation, what would that make her? The mistress of a rumored killer? If those party-goers can spin gossip from even the slightest foundation of truth, lies could be spooled from nothing at all.
Perhaps, she shouldn't allow his presence, but it's not her garden to banish him from.]
I do adore parties. [She breaks in, but the excitement which would normally carry her words is subdued, somehow. Finally she pinches the burning remains of her cigarette out, breathing out the last of it. She leans forward to rest her elbows on her knees, cupping her face in her hands.] They excite me.
no subject
[There's a risk, in uttering his name. As if, just by speaking of him, she might reveal her adoration in how she forms the letters, how she cradles that familiar name and the very sound of it makes her voice flutter in high notes. No one, she is tentatively certain, saw her and the host of this lavish soiree disappear off into the greenery for quite a length of time, and even if someone had—well, he cannot possibly connect the name to the man. After all, as everyone is so fond of repeating, Gatsby is a man of many rumors, and no one has ever seen his face.
He sits a short distance from her, and mentally, she is still trying to navigate how much is respectful and how much would be scandalous. Not that there is anything warranting scandal about them, having an innocent conversation, but—people talk. They say her lover is the son of an evil king, a man who kills for fun, a murderer, cruel and ruthless to the bone—and if gossipers knew of their relation, what would that make her? The mistress of a rumored killer? If those party-goers can spin gossip from even the slightest foundation of truth, lies could be spooled from nothing at all.
Perhaps, she shouldn't allow his presence, but it's not her garden to banish him from.]
I do adore parties. [She breaks in, but the excitement which would normally carry her words is subdued, somehow. Finally she pinches the burning remains of her cigarette out, breathing out the last of it. She leans forward to rest her elbows on her knees, cupping her face in her hands.] They excite me.
Do you attend many?