[She watches his feet advance as he takes a step towards her, the rustle of long grass and the scattering of fireflies as he moves closer, the darkness of his shadow falling upon her.
Anyone would have to be severely lacking in sense to not have noticed the tension between them, at first cloying and light, but now electric and heavy enough to press like a tangible weight on her shoulders, drawing tightly together. She remains where she is, immobile and silent, her teeth worrying with her bottom lip, pale brows drawing together. There are at least a hundred-thousand things that they could (should) be doing: returning to the party, having another drink, going back to their warm homes and safe automobiles and returning to where they had come, anything but steadily, slowly lessening the distance between them with every step.
Overwhelmed, the only movement she makes is to let her scarcely-touched cigarette slip from her fingers, letting it burn out amongst the grass. She should call for someone—even one of the brass-knuckled waiters, if she felt so threatened—or any one who could get a firm grip on the situation. But she is not threatened, and she does not call out. For what reason would she have to be scared of him? It is certainly reasonable to be cautious, even a touch wary of his behavior and his lack of straightforward responses, but there is nothing about him which sets her nerves jangling with instinctual dislike, nothing which makes her feel honestly frightened, in the way she would be of a drunken fist or raised voices.
Nor is she forward enough to command him to leave, in a garden which is not hers, when she is just as guilty, having come here for the purpose of a romantic rendezvous with another man, in the exact same place where they stand now. It—it is not the desire for his company which prevents her from sending him away, after all. With all of her heart, she truly loves another—and her affections do not wane, just because Gatsby is rumored to be off dealing with dark underbellies of unsavory businesses, just because he is trying to make her into the perfect likeliness of her late teen-aged self, which he has imposed upon her now, five years tragically, terribly too late. He may have concocted a fairytale ending for them, but in a reality which could never exist, no matter how much she hopes for the opposite.
He does a lot of things he shouldn't: he just gave her a warning, as plain as day, and she tries desperately to imagine she doesn't know what those things could be, what the undertone in his voice is really referring to. She cannot protest, and she cannot leave: she is caught between choices, unable to move forward or back, and it is far too late to be blissfully ignorant now.]
no subject
Anyone would have to be severely lacking in sense to not have noticed the tension between them, at first cloying and light, but now electric and heavy enough to press like a tangible weight on her shoulders, drawing tightly together. She remains where she is, immobile and silent, her teeth worrying with her bottom lip, pale brows drawing together. There are at least a hundred-thousand things that they could (should) be doing: returning to the party, having another drink, going back to their warm homes and safe automobiles and returning to where they had come, anything but steadily, slowly lessening the distance between them with every step.
Overwhelmed, the only movement she makes is to let her scarcely-touched cigarette slip from her fingers, letting it burn out amongst the grass. She should call for someone—even one of the brass-knuckled waiters, if she felt so threatened—or any one who could get a firm grip on the situation. But she is not threatened, and she does not call out. For what reason would she have to be scared of him? It is certainly reasonable to be cautious, even a touch wary of his behavior and his lack of straightforward responses, but there is nothing about him which sets her nerves jangling with instinctual dislike, nothing which makes her feel honestly frightened, in the way she would be of a drunken fist or raised voices.
Nor is she forward enough to command him to leave, in a garden which is not hers, when she is just as guilty, having come here for the purpose of a romantic rendezvous with another man, in the exact same place where they stand now. It—it is not the desire for his company which prevents her from sending him away, after all. With all of her heart, she truly loves another—and her affections do not wane, just because Gatsby is rumored to be off dealing with dark underbellies of unsavory businesses, just because he is trying to make her into the perfect likeliness of her late teen-aged self, which he has imposed upon her now, five years tragically, terribly too late. He may have concocted a fairytale ending for them, but in a reality which could never exist, no matter how much she hopes for the opposite.
He does a lot of things he shouldn't: he just gave her a warning, as plain as day, and she tries desperately to imagine she doesn't know what those things could be, what the undertone in his voice is really referring to. She cannot protest, and she cannot leave: she is caught between choices, unable to move forward or back, and it is far too late to be blissfully ignorant now.]