[She laughs, tittering behind her hand, delighted by how bluntly he states his compliments, as if his words are undeniable fact. It's nothing like the long, loving letters she has received in the past, singing her praises, or the gruff murmurs she had once believed and cherished with all her heart. But then, she had never pegged him to be a very romantic sort.]
You say awfully sweet things.
[It's a kind thought, all the same. That he even bothers to pay her a compliment at all is flattering. She has to admit, for such a sour turn the evening had taken before, their rendezvous is turning into a rather pleasant event. So long as they remain aware of themselves, sustaining the sense of superficial politeness between them. As long as they remember to keep their distance, and prevent stumbling into situations which are too close for comfort. The slight coolness in her demeanor tempers her enjoyment of the night, but so it must be. Dancing and chatting is all well and good, but if she forgets herself—if he forgets himself—
She is already walking on a thin, fraying tightrope as it is, with her husband's temper snapping at her heels. It is exhausting, between being the bitter wife and the adoring mistress, desperate to escape one world for the next, as if she can trade in gold for kisses and wealth for love. For a while, she prayed she could be happy that way, but even that is steadily unraveling, her balance slipping. Soon, the world will know, the papers will know, and her spouse will know. The time she has left to cherish her affair is slipping away as fast as the evening hours.
If she forgets herself—at the very least, the temporary happiness it yields would add yet another secret to her collection, and in the current state of things, she has enough secrets to feel suffocated by them all. Not that she would. Not that she is even tempted, to do something recklessly foolish with him. She must (or should) remain steadfast and unseduced by the low cadence to his voice, and his attractively straightforward mannerisms, and the lack of sugar coating which no other man has yet to afford her.
But remaining platonic does not mean lacking politeness, and to send him away would be very unpolite.]
You talk as if you're wicked, but you don't remind me of a single wicked thing.
[She has Gatsby. She has her beloved cousin and dear gaggle of friends, if not her own immediate family. She has a whole ensemble of people to socialize with and talk and dance with, just the same as she is doing with him. Nothing about tonight should feel wholly special, or unique, and yet—
And yet. The elusive cliff-hanger, the word which her mind continues to stumble over, struggling to finish her thought, always trailing off in a muddle of confusion. She should not, and yet—there is something.]
no subject
You say awfully sweet things.
[It's a kind thought, all the same. That he even bothers to pay her a compliment at all is flattering. She has to admit, for such a sour turn the evening had taken before, their rendezvous is turning into a rather pleasant event. So long as they remain aware of themselves, sustaining the sense of superficial politeness between them. As long as they remember to keep their distance, and prevent stumbling into situations which are too close for comfort. The slight coolness in her demeanor tempers her enjoyment of the night, but so it must be. Dancing and chatting is all well and good, but if she forgets herself—if he forgets himself—
She is already walking on a thin, fraying tightrope as it is, with her husband's temper snapping at her heels. It is exhausting, between being the bitter wife and the adoring mistress, desperate to escape one world for the next, as if she can trade in gold for kisses and wealth for love. For a while, she prayed she could be happy that way, but even that is steadily unraveling, her balance slipping. Soon, the world will know, the papers will know, and her spouse will know. The time she has left to cherish her affair is slipping away as fast as the evening hours.
If she forgets herself—at the very least, the temporary happiness it yields would add yet another secret to her collection, and in the current state of things, she has enough secrets to feel suffocated by them all. Not that she would. Not that she is even tempted, to do something recklessly foolish with him. She must (or should) remain steadfast and unseduced by the low cadence to his voice, and his attractively straightforward mannerisms, and the lack of sugar coating which no other man has yet to afford her.
But remaining platonic does not mean lacking politeness, and to send him away would be very unpolite.]
You talk as if you're wicked, but you don't remind me of a single wicked thing.
[She has Gatsby. She has her beloved cousin and dear gaggle of friends, if not her own immediate family. She has a whole ensemble of people to socialize with and talk and dance with, just the same as she is doing with him. Nothing about tonight should feel wholly special, or unique, and yet—
And yet. The elusive cliff-hanger, the word which her mind continues to stumble over, struggling to finish her thought, always trailing off in a muddle of confusion. She should not, and yet—there is something.]