[Her name sounds curious on his lips, sweet and delicate and pronounced with all the awkwardness of strangers. As if he's never really handled such fragile names and the fragile women they belong to, trying it out for the first time to see if he likes the shape of it. It's her turn to speak his name, she supposes, and she feels a bit silly for being on such informal terms so soon.]
—Jimmy, then.
[It takes more effort than she thought, and she is breathless when she utters it. She feels unbearably childish for suggesting they leap onto first-name basis so quickly. How must he think of her, for being so bold?]
They wouldn't be very enjoyable if I got sick of them. I think they're wonderful.
[They are, truly—or at least they had been, in the beginning. She adored it all, getting lost in the grandiosity and gaiety, able to forget certain thorns in her heart with a glass of champagne or three or five. Who had time to worry about domestic troubles, when women were cooing over her diamond necklace, when men kept fumbling for her hand, weighted with gold rings and pearls, with undisguised greed and envy? Yes, how could she not adore these vibrant little types of gatherings, where her husband made simpering eyes at every lithe young actress who crossed his way, and all anyone, anyone ever wished to discuss was the Sweetheart of Louisville, the golden girl, how lovely and wealthy and happy she must be!]
Just wonderful.
[She repeats, a little flatly, her smile souring slightly at the edges. Recently, only Gatsby's parties have been something she has genuinely been able to enjoy, but for reasons other than simply the fireworks and entertainments—none of which he needs to know about.]
no subject
—Jimmy, then.
[It takes more effort than she thought, and she is breathless when she utters it. She feels unbearably childish for suggesting they leap onto first-name basis so quickly. How must he think of her, for being so bold?]
They wouldn't be very enjoyable if I got sick of them. I think they're wonderful.
[They are, truly—or at least they had been, in the beginning. She adored it all, getting lost in the grandiosity and gaiety, able to forget certain thorns in her heart with a glass of champagne or three or five. Who had time to worry about domestic troubles, when women were cooing over her diamond necklace, when men kept fumbling for her hand, weighted with gold rings and pearls, with undisguised greed and envy? Yes, how could she not adore these vibrant little types of gatherings, where her husband made simpering eyes at every lithe young actress who crossed his way, and all anyone, anyone ever wished to discuss was the Sweetheart of Louisville, the golden girl, how lovely and wealthy and happy she must be!]
Just wonderful.
[She repeats, a little flatly, her smile souring slightly at the edges. Recently, only Gatsby's parties have been something she has genuinely been able to enjoy, but for reasons other than simply the fireworks and entertainments—none of which he needs to know about.]