The air in Atlantic City tastes like salt-water taffy and the ocean, green frills of sea foam lapping at her bare ankles when she strolls along the beach, delighting at the advertisements for exotic cigars and spun sugar as she takes her husband by the arm, the wooden planks of the boardwalk groaning beneath their steps.
She had been married for a few years, now. The wedding had been distinctly bittersweet, the first few days afterwards had been a lovely blur of honeymoon suites, and a week or so, sometimes afterwards— The papers had told it all, really: the car crash, the automobile being an absolute wreck, her husband, caught in the lap of a chambermaid from a hotel. Almost inconsequentially after that, Tom made sure Daisy had his child, and now their infant daughter remains left behind in Chicago, taken comfortable care of by a nanny.
Their late afternoon, bordering on the cusp of evening, stroll comes to a slow halt when Tom raps his thick knuckles upon the handsome wood doors of Babette's Supper Club, a fine establishment, he promised her. No sooner are they greeted by a woman in a tuxedo does Tom shuffle off to one of the private upstairs rooms, mentioning a Mr. Thompson, a politician of some spectacularly anomalous sort, with whom he wishes to discuss golfing championships with.
She sees the lingering glance he gives a waitress, and wishes him a happy clandestine meeting with the sharpest smile she can give.
Very much alone, Daisy is left to her own devices in the swirling mad dash of activity, and between the brass band and the dancing couples, she takes a seat in one of the booths, politely accepting an offer for a very illegal glass of champagne from one of the waiters. Such is the life she has grown accustomed to.]
let's pretend this whole thread is a flashback
The air in Atlantic City tastes like salt-water taffy and the ocean, green frills of sea foam lapping at her bare ankles when she strolls along the beach, delighting at the advertisements for exotic cigars and spun sugar as she takes her husband by the arm, the wooden planks of the boardwalk groaning beneath their steps.
She had been married for a few years, now. The wedding had been distinctly bittersweet, the first few days afterwards had been a lovely blur of honeymoon suites, and a week or so, sometimes afterwards— The papers had told it all, really: the car crash, the automobile being an absolute wreck, her husband, caught in the lap of a chambermaid from a hotel. Almost inconsequentially after that, Tom made sure Daisy had his child, and now their infant daughter remains left behind in Chicago, taken comfortable care of by a nanny.
Their late afternoon, bordering on the cusp of evening, stroll comes to a slow halt when Tom raps his thick knuckles upon the handsome wood doors of Babette's Supper Club, a fine establishment, he promised her. No sooner are they greeted by a woman in a tuxedo does Tom shuffle off to one of the private upstairs rooms, mentioning a Mr. Thompson, a politician of some spectacularly anomalous sort, with whom he wishes to discuss golfing championships with.
She sees the lingering glance he gives a waitress, and wishes him a happy clandestine meeting with the sharpest smile she can give.
Very much alone, Daisy is left to her own devices in the swirling mad dash of activity, and between the brass band and the dancing couples, she takes a seat in one of the booths, politely accepting an offer for a very illegal glass of champagne from one of the waiters. Such is the life she has grown accustomed to.]