[Her smile flattens slightly while he talks, giving a purposeful little nod of her head to show she is listening, tactfully deciding to leave aside any prodding, curious questions of his family, his wife and son.
Another woman, she thinks, might demand why is he here, practically alone in this party, in this garden, talking to her and asking her a whole myriad of questions. Flirting, almost, blurring the borders between milquetoast politeness and deeply personal inquiries. But, she is not the sort of woman to foist her opinions on others, and she certainly lacks the sort of fire that a more spirited woman would have, in order to voice such demands.]
All kind of interests?
[She repeats, curious in the way she knows she shouldn't be. She watches him closely, as if trying to divulge what those interests could be, just from sight alone. When she speaks next, the slow burn of the South creeps thickly into her voice: a sweet, relaxed drawl which encourages a sense of trust between them. Somewhere, a foxtrot starts up in the distance, to a raucous wave of cheers. With the first few notes straining through the night air, it only takes her a moment to make up her mind. To not turn away, to not excuse herself inside, although by all means, she should. Gatsby will be looking for her. Worse, her husband will be looking for her. And yet...]
I don't suppose dancing is one of them?
[She remembers the flare of terror, of frustration and desperation, inquiring to her lover in low, heated tones exchanged between kisses: Can't we just have fun, like we used to? Why must theirs be a secret worth revealing, why must he not be content with her kingdom of lights, why must they tell Tom?
Mr. Darmody, however, offers a fine distraction from those dizzying questions. She offers him her hand, half-teasing.]
no subject
Another woman, she thinks, might demand why is he here, practically alone in this party, in this garden, talking to her and asking her a whole myriad of questions. Flirting, almost, blurring the borders between milquetoast politeness and deeply personal inquiries. But, she is not the sort of woman to foist her opinions on others, and she certainly lacks the sort of fire that a more spirited woman would have, in order to voice such demands.]
All kind of interests?
[She repeats, curious in the way she knows she shouldn't be. She watches him closely, as if trying to divulge what those interests could be, just from sight alone. When she speaks next, the slow burn of the South creeps thickly into her voice: a sweet, relaxed drawl which encourages a sense of trust between them. Somewhere, a foxtrot starts up in the distance, to a raucous wave of cheers. With the first few notes straining through the night air, it only takes her a moment to make up her mind. To not turn away, to not excuse herself inside, although by all means, she should. Gatsby will be looking for her. Worse, her husband will be looking for her. And yet...]
I don't suppose dancing is one of them?
[She remembers the flare of terror, of frustration and desperation, inquiring to her lover in low, heated tones exchanged between kisses: Can't we just have fun, like we used to? Why must theirs be a secret worth revealing, why must he not be content with her kingdom of lights, why must they tell Tom?
Mr. Darmody, however, offers a fine distraction from those dizzying questions. She offers him her hand, half-teasing.]