[She clings to his arm strongly, keeping her face lowered like an shamed and scorned harlot, physically drawing back at the sudden burst of sound and noise as they take their first shaking steps upon the world outside of their isolated booth. She almost whimpers at the clash of cymbals from the band, but her voice is drowned out by the brass taps of trumpets and the husky voice of a singer beneath the spotlight. Between the different colors of suited gentlemen and their own female companions on their arms, she and him slip between the dancers with ease, parting smoothly through the crowd.
It is already night, when they emerge from the dazzling lights and heady atmosphere of decadent merrymaking. Outside the club, a seaside breeze stirs the lace hem of her dress up around her stockinged knees, and she pushes it down with an indignant hand. There is no need to ask where they will go, not when he knows the city with obvious familiarity. Along the way, there are jewelry sellers and street florists and barkers for amusement park attractions, and as he guides her through the festival of activity, it is almost as if they are a proper couple.
The hotel he singled out is a mere few blocks down, with lavender wallpaper and silver accents (chosen for the lavish decorations purely for her benefit) and bellboys who ask no questions when unlocking the door to their suite. The interior is just as lavish and possesses as romantic an atmosphere as the rest of the hotel, an anonymous room where anyone at all could be seeking refuge. To the ignorant guest, they could be just a honeymooning pair, or a long married twosome celebrating a special event—not a man and his girl who had just barely met hours ago.
Looking at the streak of moonlight falling across the bed, it strikes her that he may be just toying with intimacy. She thought she had been assured when he first kissed her, when he showed enough control to be gentlemanly about her worries, but with the reality of the rented room and the heavy key upon the nightstand, she is seized with doubt. What proof has she that he loves her—and it has to be love, the pure, genuine article, or else she would not do this for anything else—or is there nothing to convince her but her own fervent imaginings? Is she so desperate for his adoration that she has conjured it from nothing more than a kiss and polite question?]
—James.
[She speaks his name very softly, and it's the first time it has touched her lips tonight.]
Are you in love with me?
[She punctuates the question with a bittersweet wisp of a smile, as if asking in good humor. He may feel inclined to lie to her, but the question still stands to be asked, spoken in too honest and too somber of a tone to be taken as any sort of jest. If the answer is no—she has received the truth, cruel as it is. If the answer is yes—
no subject
It is already night, when they emerge from the dazzling lights and heady atmosphere of decadent merrymaking. Outside the club, a seaside breeze stirs the lace hem of her dress up around her stockinged knees, and she pushes it down with an indignant hand. There is no need to ask where they will go, not when he knows the city with obvious familiarity. Along the way, there are jewelry sellers and street florists and barkers for amusement park attractions, and as he guides her through the festival of activity, it is almost as if they are a proper couple.
The hotel he singled out is a mere few blocks down, with lavender wallpaper and silver accents (chosen for the lavish decorations purely for her benefit) and bellboys who ask no questions when unlocking the door to their suite. The interior is just as lavish and possesses as romantic an atmosphere as the rest of the hotel, an anonymous room where anyone at all could be seeking refuge. To the ignorant guest, they could be just a honeymooning pair, or a long married twosome celebrating a special event—not a man and his girl who had just barely met hours ago.
Looking at the streak of moonlight falling across the bed, it strikes her that he may be just toying with intimacy. She thought she had been assured when he first kissed her, when he showed enough control to be gentlemanly about her worries, but with the reality of the rented room and the heavy key upon the nightstand, she is seized with doubt. What proof has she that he loves her—and it has to be love, the pure, genuine article, or else she would not do this for anything else—or is there nothing to convince her but her own fervent imaginings? Is she so desperate for his adoration that she has conjured it from nothing more than a kiss and polite question?]
—James.
[She speaks his name very softly, and it's the first time it has touched her lips tonight.]
Are you in love with me?
[She punctuates the question with a bittersweet wisp of a smile, as if asking in good humor. He may feel inclined to lie to her, but the question still stands to be asked, spoken in too honest and too somber of a tone to be taken as any sort of jest. If the answer is no—she has received the truth, cruel as it is. If the answer is yes—
If it is, what will she do then?]