[She resists the temptation to wrinkle her nose, perhaps a little sourly, at the subsequent drops of amber whiskey running down the side of his glass. Something about him, at least in this state, reminds her a little of Tom, in a bittersweet combination: for as much as she is charmed by his masculine posturing, nor is she wholly swept up in his brusque manner of speaking, or how he insists drunkenness is a fine state for a man to be in. Admittedly, to burden the heart with bottles of the liquid courage, and to claim it for vigor is a mistake most men are guilty of, and there are even times when she too sips on sweet chardonnays and thinks herself all the better for it.
She is not entirely sure what to make of him. She enjoys the simplistic red of his mouth, caught in a perpetual, albeit slightly sluggish smile, and she is pleased well enough that he is so enthusiastic in her company, but he should really be sober enough to offer conversation beyond drinking—or else, his innate charms will service him very little.
Taking initiative, again owing to her own drinking, she extends her hand to him: small, white, and fragile, her slender wrist heavy with a pearl bracelet. She does so with a note of hesitation, as if bordering on the wonder if he would just as quickly crush it rather than shake it.]
Isn't a gentleman supposed to introduce himself first?
[There is nothing unkind in her voice, however, speaking with artificial dispassion to disguise her willingness to talk. There's a brief pause, waiting for his end, and then, in a gibbering catastrophe of nerves:]
How do you do—? [She launches into a rapid introduction, wavering, unsure how to approach the man or whether she has sorely misjudged him: perhaps he is an even greater brute than her husband.] Daisy— [The burn of old South is slurring her words just slightly, warm and breathless, spurred on by her own indecisible heart.] Fay— [She takes a pause, a quiet little shuddering of her shoulders as she remembers to shake of the remnants of her old maiden life, remembering her new surname and all the expectations that come with being enfolded into the enormous blue-blooded cage of the empire.] Buchanan.
no subject
She is not entirely sure what to make of him. She enjoys the simplistic red of his mouth, caught in a perpetual, albeit slightly sluggish smile, and she is pleased well enough that he is so enthusiastic in her company, but he should really be sober enough to offer conversation beyond drinking—or else, his innate charms will service him very little.
Taking initiative, again owing to her own drinking, she extends her hand to him: small, white, and fragile, her slender wrist heavy with a pearl bracelet. She does so with a note of hesitation, as if bordering on the wonder if he would just as quickly crush it rather than shake it.]
Isn't a gentleman supposed to introduce himself first?
[There is nothing unkind in her voice, however, speaking with artificial dispassion to disguise her willingness to talk. There's a brief pause, waiting for his end, and then, in a gibbering catastrophe of nerves:]
How do you do—? [She launches into a rapid introduction, wavering, unsure how to approach the man or whether she has sorely misjudged him: perhaps he is an even greater brute than her husband.] Daisy— [The burn of old South is slurring her words just slightly, warm and breathless, spurred on by her own indecisible heart.] Fay— [She takes a pause, a quiet little shuddering of her shoulders as she remembers to shake of the remnants of her old maiden life, remembering her new surname and all the expectations that come with being enfolded into the enormous blue-blooded cage of the empire.] Buchanan.