[In this moment of quiet, the music freely fills in for the spaces between them, time seeming to slow while they put all their efforts into keeping up with the other's steps, and nothing else. Yet, the silence feels just as intimate as their conversation did, tip-toeing with such care around topics they should avoid, exchanging names and pleasantries but hardly knowing anything about one another, in the end. Her curiosity is burning at the forefront of her mind, the words already on her lips: Just what business are you in? But she is unable to ask, she finds that she doesn't want to ask, despite the urge to satisfy her interest in him.
She finds him very, oddly enough, interesting. It could just be his indirect way of answering, how he boldly propositions her with his own inquiries, how there has never been a man quite like him at one of these parties. He is not the same breed of polite gentlemen who constantly flock to her, or that of the ruthless gangster who lurks around the corners. He is an oddity in and of itself, since he first caught her eye in a suit of blue and a strange indifference to the world around him. Except when it comes to her: for some reason, she has caught his attention tonight, by miracle or by mistake.
The song ends, both far too quickly and seemingly after ages have passed, but Daisy falters. She doesn't break away from his arms—not instantaneously, at least. She remains still, clutching faintly at the warmth of his hand, as if straining her hearing for the crushing of dewy grass or the rustling of leaves, signalling the arrival of another person.
But no one else comes.]
Lying is a terrible habit, really. [She speaks first, sweating lightly from the exertion, or from the warm summer air. Finally, she moves away, her arms retreating to her sides. Their brief moment of contact is over, as is their charming dance.] I think your dancing is just adorable, Mr. Darmody.
no subject
She finds him very, oddly enough, interesting. It could just be his indirect way of answering, how he boldly propositions her with his own inquiries, how there has never been a man quite like him at one of these parties. He is not the same breed of polite gentlemen who constantly flock to her, or that of the ruthless gangster who lurks around the corners. He is an oddity in and of itself, since he first caught her eye in a suit of blue and a strange indifference to the world around him. Except when it comes to her: for some reason, she has caught his attention tonight, by miracle or by mistake.
The song ends, both far too quickly and seemingly after ages have passed, but Daisy falters. She doesn't break away from his arms—not instantaneously, at least. She remains still, clutching faintly at the warmth of his hand, as if straining her hearing for the crushing of dewy grass or the rustling of leaves, signalling the arrival of another person.
But no one else comes.]
Lying is a terrible habit, really. [She speaks first, sweating lightly from the exertion, or from the warm summer air. Finally, she moves away, her arms retreating to her sides. Their brief moment of contact is over, as is their charming dance.] I think your dancing is just adorable, Mr. Darmody.