[Once again, his hand covers hers—there is almost something tender, loving about the gesture—and she hears a quality about his tone that she cannot place: whether it's meant to be apologetic, or seductive, or some combination of the two, she cannot deny his brazen confidence. Dimly, the realization strikes her that the firm press of his knee is intentional, but—what is there to do about it? She cannot push him, or shove him away, or deliver a smart slap any more than he could stop being tempted by her.
She could pretend she hasn't noticed, the possibility presents itself to her. She could blithely continue on with their clumsy attempts at conversation, to act as if she has never felt the warmth of his palm and the battered, rough skin of his pale knuckles. She could carry on the modest charade that she has never thought of admiring the masculine shape of his frame and the solid weight of muscle belied by crisp suits and silver silk ties. If she did, it would certainly cause less fuss. If she didn't, she might upset him awfully, or worst of all—ignite a flicker of some brooding temper, an unknown violence in his blood, which could be directed towards her, if she refuses him.
And—and it has been ages, since she's been touched with any sort of genuine sweetness, with something more than lust or the impersonal pragmatism of her spouse. She trembles in her hesitancy, her gaze darting anxiously between him and the gap in the drapery, the sound of stampeding footsteps and boisterous laughter not a mere few feet away, only the thin velvet curtain protecting their modesty—
She takes a shaky, shuddering breath, as if strengthening her resolve:]
Mr. Darmody, I—
[The curtains burst apart, and in her surprise, she presses against his side in the way that intimate sweethearts would, dropping her cigarette onto the polished table, clutching at the cuff of his sleeve in a moment of terrified incomprehension.
But it is only another drunken couple, looking blithely for their own booth: the man slurs an apology, leading a giggling woman on his arm away. The curtains are yanked shut again, her heart racing in her throat, her cigarette still smoldering feebly on the table. She does not disentangle herself immediately, her fragile frame still seized stiff from the shock of it all—but eventually, gently, she attempts to slide away, to put a comfortable distance between them.]
I'm married, Mr. Darmody.
[She says in a small voice, as if ashamed of her confession. And there is no reason, none whatsoever, for her heart to ache when she says this. As if anticipating his next bold remark, she continues on:]
It doesn't matter if I love him— [If she loves him—it had never meant to slip out, but there it is, her honeyed voice sharp and bitter with unkind honesty.] I'm his wife.
[It doesn't quite sound like a rejection, though. Not quite.]
no subject
She could pretend she hasn't noticed, the possibility presents itself to her. She could blithely continue on with their clumsy attempts at conversation, to act as if she has never felt the warmth of his palm and the battered, rough skin of his pale knuckles. She could carry on the modest charade that she has never thought of admiring the masculine shape of his frame and the solid weight of muscle belied by crisp suits and silver silk ties. If she did, it would certainly cause less fuss. If she didn't, she might upset him awfully, or worst of all—ignite a flicker of some brooding temper, an unknown violence in his blood, which could be directed towards her, if she refuses him.
And—and it has been ages, since she's been touched with any sort of genuine sweetness, with something more than lust or the impersonal pragmatism of her spouse. She trembles in her hesitancy, her gaze darting anxiously between him and the gap in the drapery, the sound of stampeding footsteps and boisterous laughter not a mere few feet away, only the thin velvet curtain protecting their modesty—
She takes a shaky, shuddering breath, as if strengthening her resolve:]
Mr. Darmody, I—
[The curtains burst apart, and in her surprise, she presses against his side in the way that intimate sweethearts would, dropping her cigarette onto the polished table, clutching at the cuff of his sleeve in a moment of terrified incomprehension.
But it is only another drunken couple, looking blithely for their own booth: the man slurs an apology, leading a giggling woman on his arm away. The curtains are yanked shut again, her heart racing in her throat, her cigarette still smoldering feebly on the table. She does not disentangle herself immediately, her fragile frame still seized stiff from the shock of it all—but eventually, gently, she attempts to slide away, to put a comfortable distance between them.]
I'm married, Mr. Darmody.
[She says in a small voice, as if ashamed of her confession. And there is no reason, none whatsoever, for her heart to ache when she says this. As if anticipating his next bold remark, she continues on:]
It doesn't matter if I love him— [If she loves him—it had never meant to slip out, but there it is, her honeyed voice sharp and bitter with unkind honesty.] I'm his wife.
[It doesn't quite sound like a rejection, though. Not quite.]