[His gentle teasing, and the even gentler way he takes her hand seems to reassure her, her heart no longer fluttering with such intensity, no longer racing from the queer combination of instinctual wariness and the pressing conversational cues of having to make introductions. Not that she is assured, entirely, of his good character—his refusal to be called a gentleman could be foreboding, if it were spoken in a different tone (foretelling of something devilish about him, maybe, as if a criminal cruelty could be seen in his gait and his speech, as if the gangster is another kind of monster dreamed up by some terrible imagination)—but the first impression he makes upon her is not terrible at all. She shares in his quiet little joke, playing at being formal in an entirely informal situation, sharing drinks in an establishment which promises a good time to be had for all its patrons, although what constitutes as "a good time" is a very broad definition.
Indeed, she notes sourly, her husband's definition of enjoyments is a very scandalous one, no doubt being met to his satisfaction upstairs.]
A pleasure, Mr. Darmody.
[She slips her hand from his, freeing it to tuck an errant strand of blonde behind the delicate curl of her ear. Through the open curtain, she can see the stage, women in identical outfits taking their places to begin a dance routine, sweating from the blazing hot lights. She doesn't take any pleasure in watching the lithe, nubile young things on stage, the performers with short skirts and spangles which reach barely the tops of their legs, thinking again of her spouse's enjoyment of the performance—and she reaches up, quite suddenly, to close the curtains.
Doing so has unintentionally cast them in an artificial darkness, lit only by the dimmer overhead bulbs. They are quite alone in the private booth, and in a moment of self-consciousness, she clutches for her glass again, only to see it has already been emptied.]
no subject
Indeed, she notes sourly, her husband's definition of enjoyments is a very scandalous one, no doubt being met to his satisfaction upstairs.]
A pleasure, Mr. Darmody.
[She slips her hand from his, freeing it to tuck an errant strand of blonde behind the delicate curl of her ear. Through the open curtain, she can see the stage, women in identical outfits taking their places to begin a dance routine, sweating from the blazing hot lights. She doesn't take any pleasure in watching the lithe, nubile young things on stage, the performers with short skirts and spangles which reach barely the tops of their legs, thinking again of her spouse's enjoyment of the performance—and she reaches up, quite suddenly, to close the curtains.
Doing so has unintentionally cast them in an artificial darkness, lit only by the dimmer overhead bulbs. They are quite alone in the private booth, and in a moment of self-consciousness, she clutches for her glass again, only to see it has already been emptied.]