[His voice breaks the silence between them, and the sound almost makes her startle, still hearing the wild racing of her heart and her own shallow breathing in her ears, unprepared for what he offers her next. She tilts her face up, meeting his gaze at last, not expecting the innocent invitation to dance—what she had been expecting was something quite different, and she feels a rush of sweet relief that he is not the sort of brutish man who takes what he wants, that one of them has the sense to prevent—
What-ever this may be.]
Just for a little while.
[She agrees softly, a hint of reluctance—or a somber, wistful quality—to her voice. She submits to his request, just as she meekly folded beneath pressure before. She could no more ask him to leave any more than she could refuse to dance with him. It could have to do with that he is charming and intriguing in his own little devious ways, that he affords her a distraction, or that his touch is warm and she feels cold from neglect, even in the bayou warmth of this sticky-sweet summer night.
Here they are again, on the precipice. She takes his hand once more, hers looking very small and slender within his, squeezing lightly. She takes a hesitant step forward, her other hand reaching out rest on his shoulder, her fingers curling over the dark blue of his suit. The music is a faint din, hardly audible. The rhythm is barely discernible, and it is already difficult enough to dance when they could hear it crystal-clear.
She wonders if he already knew before offering, if it's not just a dance at all he is after. More troubling, she wonders why she has not broken away from him yet, why he persists in keeping in her company, and why she has not refused his advances. Ugly words—muttered only in the thick of drunken rage—rise to the surface of her mind, much too vile and revolting to repeat. Things she has been accused of being, things that she knows she will be accused of, if the truth is ever brought to light. Every unsavory and terrible name for a woman—of course, Tom had apologized profusely once he had sobered up, kissing her bruises and offering her more boxes of sweets and jewelry. But now, she remembers those foul names, and she feels a hot burn of shame, wondering if those names do not suit her, after all?
It is just a dance, she reminds herself. An innocent dance, a playful and perfectly reputable way to pass the time.]
no subject
What-ever this may be.]
Just for a little while.
[She agrees softly, a hint of reluctance—or a somber, wistful quality—to her voice. She submits to his request, just as she meekly folded beneath pressure before. She could no more ask him to leave any more than she could refuse to dance with him. It could have to do with that he is charming and intriguing in his own little devious ways, that he affords her a distraction, or that his touch is warm and she feels cold from neglect, even in the bayou warmth of this sticky-sweet summer night.
Here they are again, on the precipice. She takes his hand once more, hers looking very small and slender within his, squeezing lightly. She takes a hesitant step forward, her other hand reaching out rest on his shoulder, her fingers curling over the dark blue of his suit. The music is a faint din, hardly audible. The rhythm is barely discernible, and it is already difficult enough to dance when they could hear it crystal-clear.
She wonders if he already knew before offering, if it's not just a dance at all he is after. More troubling, she wonders why she has not broken away from him yet, why he persists in keeping in her company, and why she has not refused his advances. Ugly words—muttered only in the thick of drunken rage—rise to the surface of her mind, much too vile and revolting to repeat. Things she has been accused of being, things that she knows she will be accused of, if the truth is ever brought to light. Every unsavory and terrible name for a woman—of course, Tom had apologized profusely once he had sobered up, kissing her bruises and offering her more boxes of sweets and jewelry. But now, she remembers those foul names, and she feels a hot burn of shame, wondering if those names do not suit her, after all?
It is just a dance, she reminds herself. An innocent dance, a playful and perfectly reputable way to pass the time.]