[There it is: that darkness which passes over her face, which removes the smile for just a moment. Everyone has their own version of that somber expression, and that's hers. He sees it when he looks in the mirror, too, although maybe his face isn't as open and innocent as hers is -- it had been, once, but he hadn't been able to maintain it. Even now, there's something charming and almost cherubic about his face, at times, but that's just a guise, really.
He nods. He takes another drag on his cigarette. And then speaks again, still almost lazily.]
And I'm askin' you.
[Pushing too hard for an answer? Probably, especially since he hadn't given her an adequate one himself, and he can see the way something about his vagueness had unsettled her. It's not hard to pick up on that, nor is it hard to pick up on the way she transforms that uneasiness into a laugh, because she must assume he's just being amusing, teasing her in some way. Better she think that than think the alternative, he figures. She obviously has no idea who he is, not by name or by reputation, and there's a part of him that'd like to keep it that way.]
[Now, the flicker in her expression is longer than a moment, and she takes an anxious series of puffs from her own cigarette, breathing out smoke in a sigh.]
It doesn't matter terribly, does it? [She can hear her voice falter, but she has a feeling that this Mr. Darmody is not the type to be distracted by laughter and flattery. His persistence in knowing her mind alone strikes a sour note, but at the same time, it's so unusual to be asked at all.]
I think... [Who would care what a woman thinks? Not many of the guests here would care for the word of a woman, even one married into a wealthy empire, when there is liquor to taste and fireworks to admire. But he wants to know, and at his unsubtle prompting, she folds beneath the pressure, struggling for the right words. Her voice trails off, before finally picking up again.]
I think I'm just a fool. There's nothing to me at all.
[That's probably far too philosophical and cynical of a statement to be making to someone he barely knows, at what's meant to be a nice party, in a garden this lovely and alive. But he can't deny that that's the way his brain operates, though it may surprise some, to hear him spout these things which sound so very defeatist.
Her next words intrigue him, though. Most people wouldn't hasten to describe themselves as fools, especially not those who really are fools (they are, he's found, generally the least self-aware of all. His cigarette is fully smoked now, and he drops it onto the grass, grinding out the remainder of it with his shoe, wondering if it's horribly rude to drop his cigarette butts all over this place, then deciding he doesn't care.]
[There is just a tinge of desperation in her tone, betraying the tension she has kept tightly bound within her. He is full of contradictions: he is interested in her, and generous, and willing to listen—but then, he is also ominous, and mysterious, and speaks of such unhappy things, pushing her into uncomfortable territories of conversation. He intrudes upon her world of light and lace and luxuries, and his brand of reality and cynicism is too bitter a medicine for her to swallow, tonight.
His question is deliberately ignored, neatly and quietly set aside. He can ask such questions, deeply intimate and far too private to divulge to a stranger, because he possesses an air of utter confidence, as if entitled to know her every secret. But she cannot, and chooses not to, even if she had been given the option. She is just "Darling Daisy"—but a daisy wouldn't be so darling if it asked questions, anymore.
She averts her attention to her cigarette, pulling in deep breaths, watching him through the smoke and the heat of the summer night, as if he is just a mirage she has conjured. Just what city, she wonders, has brought up such a man?]
[Maybe he should feel a little guilty for bringing that tone of desperation into her voice. She doesn't deserve to be upset, and here he is, on such a nice night, upsetting her. He doesn't, not really, but he does recognize that it's time to change the topic. So he shrugs, and offers her a perfectly charming smile, and shakes his head.]
No, we don't have to. We can talk about whatever you want.
[Or not talk at all, if she feels that he's intruded upon her privacy too long. It seems very likely that she had been out here seeking some kind of solitude, after all, and he'd barged into it in his characteristically bold way. That doesn't mean, however, that he's going to leave unless she tells him to, unless she tells him that she has absolutely no interest in having a conversation whatsoever.
He'd like to have someone to talk to this evening. Someone not involved with business. Someone who doesn't have an ulterior motive. Someone he doesn't have to worry about stabbing him in the back -- or in the front.]
[His smile, at least, affords her some comfort. She returns it with a wan curl of her lips, reaching up with a hand weighted with pearl bracelets, taking in a sweet sigh of relief.]
I'm sorry— [There's no reason for her to make amends, but she feels obliged to apologize, just the same. The tranquil atmosphere in the garden is fragile enough, without her making a scene. She shrugs her shoulder, and her smile is a bit more genuine, or at least more convincing.] I've probably had too much to drink.
[She has touched the wine tonight, but not enough that she has lost her inhibitions entirely. It is the simplest excuse to think of, better than to explain the chill of discomfort he had brought upon her. She takes a seat on the low bench, carved from what looks like white marble, her gaze drifting down into her lap.
This is not, however, an unspoken request for his departure.]
Did you come here with someone? [She remembers, vaguely, the masked man.]
[It's a way of accepting the apology, nevertheless. He recognizes that some people feel the need to apologize for things they don't necessarily need to make amends for. Some people simply feel the need to take the burden of being polite and making things right onto themselves. Maybe she's one of those people. Maybe she really has had too much to drink, although he doesn't think she seems drunk, precisely, and he's spent enough time around drunk people to be able to tell.]
Yeah, I did. A business partner. A friend. You probably saw him.
[He doesn't feel the need to call attention to Richard's mask if she hadn't noticed it, and if she had, she'll know who he's talking about immediately. He feels protective of Richard, doesn't want to say more about him than he has to, doesn't want to give anyone ammunition to use against him. That's all he needs to say about that. He's tempted to join her on the bench, but he doesn't. That might be pushing things too far.]
Did you?
[He assumes so. A husband, most likely. If he hadn't seen her ring, he'd still have assumed she came here with a man. It's hard to fathom someone who looks like she does going anywhere without someone following close behind, interested in romancing her.]
[And her cousin, and others, but her personal business is not his to ponder over. And it would be in poor taste, doubtlessly, to flaunt her connections to a man who has come with only one guest of his own.
She doesn't bother to explain her circumstances any further to him, why her spouse is not accompanying her this late into the night, but the slight cynical twist to her lips is enough to reveal she has less than kind thoughts. The ruination of her hollow marriage, and the fact that her husband has sneaked away somewhere with a girl younger than she, those are all the sort of bitter topics she wishes to avoid.
There's a ring on his finger, the dull gold of which she can see in the moonlight. But just as he graciously allows the change of topic, it isn't her place to ask of his private life, either, and so the quiet between them stretches on for just a few moments longer. In a party as large as this, there is a sense of anonymity to this clandestine meeting—when she entered the garden, no one had seen her, and when he leaves, he will slip in amongst the guests, and his presence here will be just as easily forgotten.]
[Her husband. Well. The look on her face is enough to assume that it's probably not a topic he should inquire about further, if they want to avoid depressing topics for the evening. She'd already been vocal about not wishing to discuss morbid things, and he assumes that whatever's put the bitter little quirk in her mouth and in the tone of her voice qualifies as yet another thing that shouldn't be discussed.
So he just nods politely. That's the safe thing to do (not that he always cares about being safe -- in fact, half the time, he seems to go out of his way to avoid being safe entirely, always pushing things too far, always taking the risks he shouldn't; it's a constant problem, but not one that he's figured out how to put a stop to.)]
Sure, thanks.
[He moves towards the bench, an odd combination of tentativeness and confidence in his gait, and sits down beside her. Not too close, not inappropriately so, but then, it's not a large bench, either.]
D'you come to a lot of parties?
[She seems like the type, and maybe that's all he wants to know. Or maybe it's a question of whether he's likely to run into her again.]
[There's a risk, in uttering his name. As if, just by speaking of him, she might reveal her adoration in how she forms the letters, how she cradles that familiar name and the very sound of it makes her voice flutter in high notes. No one, she is tentatively certain, saw her and the host of this lavish soiree disappear off into the greenery for quite a length of time, and even if someone had—well, he cannot possibly connect the name to the man. After all, as everyone is so fond of repeating, Gatsby is a man of many rumors, and no one has ever seen his face.
He sits a short distance from her, and mentally, she is still trying to navigate how much is respectful and how much would be scandalous. Not that there is anything warranting scandal about them, having an innocent conversation, but—people talk. They say her lover is the son of an evil king, a man who kills for fun, a murderer, cruel and ruthless to the bone—and if gossipers knew of their relation, what would that make her? The mistress of a rumored killer? If those party-goers can spin gossip from even the slightest foundation of truth, lies could be spooled from nothing at all.
Perhaps, she shouldn't allow his presence, but it's not her garden to banish him from.]
I do adore parties. [She breaks in, but the excitement which would normally carry her words is subdued, somehow. Finally she pinches the burning remains of her cigarette out, breathing out the last of it. She leans forward to rest her elbows on her knees, cupping her face in her hands.] They excite me.
[And maybe he should like parties better than he does. He's always been good at making his own entertainment, after all, and there's plenty that parties offer in the way of diversions. An odd conversation in a private garden is just one of those things, and he has to admit, he's enjoying this. But this, what they're doing right here, isn't precisely a party, is it? It just happens to be attached to one. It's a moment of calm outside of the whirlwind inside. And it sounds as though she enjoys the whirlwind much more than he himself does.]
Or when someone tells me I gotta attend one.
[Because there're plenty of those, too, aren't there? Parties he'd never go to on his own, ones where he feels self-conscious and out of his depth, trying to navigate in a world that everyone had always wanted him to prepare himself for but that he's never quite fit into, no matter who his father is, no matter who had raised him. He shrugs, as though it's perfectly normal to be instructed to attend parties, and maybe it is; everyone has business they must attend to, or families to please, and for him, those two things are almost synonymous.
But she still doesn't seem to know who he is, and he wonders whether, if she knew who he worked for, who he associated with, she'd recognize those names, either. She's described herself as a fool, but he doubts that she's completely unaware of what's going on in the world around her. Just by sitting here, just by speaking to her, does he somehow exude the telltale signs of being a criminal, a gangster, someone doomed to hell, from his very pores?]
[Bewilderment gives way to wonder, turning to glance up curiously at his reply. As cool and composed as he is, she wouldn't have figured him to enjoy lavish events; as he said, it was "for business". But to be ordered to attend...that just adds another layer of intrigue.]
What do you do?
[She asks, on a whim, watching his expression. The atmosphere had struck her as romantic, before, with fireflies casting a dim glow and feeling so secluded from the rest of the world—but now, it feels only slightly cold and vacant, without a hand to hold or a warm shoulder to rest against, having a conversation which is just as odd as the man before her.
She should have gone inside, long ago: it is surely an obscene hour, so early into the morning it is indistinguishable from night. If not for the intrusion, she would have fled to wait in the comfort of indoors. But this far into their little talk, it would be brutish to leave without notice, and—and, she likes the frank cadence of his voice.
She has so very few friends, these days, she thinks she wouldn't mind just one more.]
[That's a simple enough statement, but it's bleak, too. It's true; he takes orders, always has. He'd done it when he'd been in the army, and he does it now that he's back home. He'd thought he'd become his own man, thought he'd blossom into whatever it was people were expecting of him (to be his father's son, whatever that meant, or to be like Nucky's son, which was easier to imagine but harder to achieve, somehow) but he'd come back to a place where he did what he was told to do, just like he'd done when he was gone.
And was it really so different than being away at war? Different kind of trenches, sure, but trenches all the same.]
I help facilitate business deals. That means I show up at a lot of parties.
[It sounds better than calling himself an enforcer, but the implication is there, nevertheless, if she cares to look for it. It's not like he's ashamed at what he does, precisely. Why should he be? It's a job, like any other, and besides, he's already pretty goddamn certain that he's going to hell. He's been destined for that for a long time. At this point, what's it going to matter if he adds a couple more crimes to the endless tally of them?]
[Another vague answer—but then, she reminds herself, she never requested details. It only cultivates the air of mystery about him, the image of the dark, tall stranger coming into her life and turning the night into a whirlwind of excitement. She has enough thrills and risks in her life as it is: the scandal of potential discovery, the danger of ill-repute, the notoriety of being disloyal to her spouse.
It terrifies as much as it exhilarates her.
She wonders if he's being vague for the sole purpose of teasing her, or if another reason lies behind his deliberate silences. Law enforcement? Or something more? She decides not to dwell on that particular thought, instead raising her hand to stifle a smile at his question. As if she could work—she is too frail, too soft to be exposed to the world of corporate beasts—as if he doesn't see the wealth which clings to her as silver and furs.]
I stay at home.
[She corrects him delicately, to show she hadn't been amused at his expense. And really, that is all she does: occasionally she visits the golfing tournaments, or attends opulent gatherings, but on the whole when her spouse is gone and her friends are absent, there is little else to do than sit by oneself in a room void of life and laughter.]
Yeah, but what do you do? You don't just stare at the walls all day, right?
[Because nobody could simply sit at home and do nothing, could they? Angela stays home, too, but she paints, she has things to pass her time, and he's glad for it, because it means he can feel moderately less guilty when he's away for days at a time, when he's away like he is right now, spending the evening in a secluded garden with someone he barely knows, someone very beautiful. It's not the first time it's happened, and it likely won't be the last.
And again, he recognizes, he's pressing her. Asking her for more than she'd offered, and maybe he should simply take her at her word. Maybe she really is a fool, who does nothing at all, who obviously has money, but, from the way she tells it, very little in the way of substance, save attending these parties. Somehow, though, he doesn't believe that's all there is to her.
Is it just a desire to read more into people than what's really there? He's always been inclined to pry, inclined to dig too deeply, but for just a second, he wonders what it is he sees in her that makes him poke at her in this way. It's teasing, in a sense, but genuinely curious, too, more pointed than simple idle banter.]
I am a champion golfer. [She says with a trace of a smile and some measure of pride, although she hadn't practiced the sport in years, her hands long having lost their strength and grip, too delicate to hold chrome clubs for hours on end beneath the unforgiving sun now.]
There's the radio. I drink, I dance, I wait for company to visit. [Saying it now, she is acutely aware of how lonely it must sound, isolated in white rooms with only servants for company, and she hastens to add:]
If they do visit, we have a marvelous time. It's usually a—a very nice time.
[But somehow, her efforts to sound impressive just feel all the more desperate to endear to him. People don't ask what she does, they just assume she must have a bursting agenda. With all the money in the world, who cares for what she occupies her time with? She is the wife of a man of prestige and pride, the friend of celebrities, the center of a hive of gossip. People just assume that she is naturally joyous, with possessions replacing human interaction. Who needs the touch of a lover or the conversation of a close companion when there are so many incessant things to purchase?]
What about when you're not working?
[She turns the topic to him, anything to keep the air light between them.]
[Is that what people do when they're alone all day? He doesn't know if that's typical, or if that's just her life. It doesn't sound sad, to him, not really, because who is he to judge the sadness of anyone else's life, considering his own, but it does sound lonely. If she doesn't have people visiting, she must spend most of her time in a solitary way. He appreciates solitude, certainly, but he appreciates having Angela and Tommy around, their noises, their existence in his life, too.
And then, of course, she's turning the question back around on him, as he should have expected she would, and he chuckles quietly.]
Well, not golf. You'd have me beat at that.
[Because he does hear that pride in her voice, and thinks she must be very talented at the sport, and he's never quite gotten the hang of it. He's too clumsy, maybe, or his movements are too sweeping and huge.]
I guess I do all the normal kinda things. I spend time with my son, usually on the beach, I spend time with my wife [When she wants to spend time with him, which seems to be happening less and less these days.] I read, I drink, I've got all kindsa interests.
[Her smile flattens slightly while he talks, giving a purposeful little nod of her head to show she is listening, tactfully deciding to leave aside any prodding, curious questions of his family, his wife and son.
Another woman, she thinks, might demand why is he here, practically alone in this party, in this garden, talking to her and asking her a whole myriad of questions. Flirting, almost, blurring the borders between milquetoast politeness and deeply personal inquiries. But, she is not the sort of woman to foist her opinions on others, and she certainly lacks the sort of fire that a more spirited woman would have, in order to voice such demands.]
All kind of interests?
[She repeats, curious in the way she knows she shouldn't be. She watches him closely, as if trying to divulge what those interests could be, just from sight alone. When she speaks next, the slow burn of the South creeps thickly into her voice: a sweet, relaxed drawl which encourages a sense of trust between them. Somewhere, a foxtrot starts up in the distance, to a raucous wave of cheers. With the first few notes straining through the night air, it only takes her a moment to make up her mind. To not turn away, to not excuse herself inside, although by all means, she should. Gatsby will be looking for her. Worse, her husband will be looking for her. And yet...]
I don't suppose dancing is one of them?
[She remembers the flare of terror, of frustration and desperation, inquiring to her lover in low, heated tones exchanged between kisses: Can't we just have fun, like we used to? Why must theirs be a secret worth revealing, why must he not be content with her kingdom of lights, why must they tell Tom?
Mr. Darmody, however, offers a fine distraction from those dizzying questions. She offers him her hand, half-teasing.]
[That's vague enough to mean just about anything, and he figures each person who meets him'll assume differently, depending on how they see him. He's curious as to what type of assumptions someone like her would make about him, but he supposes he has time to find out, if they keep talking. Talking to her is far more enjoyable than the rest of the party, anyway; a moment away from the chaos inside, chaos that can so easily feel overwhelming and crushing. He wonders if she feels the same way.
And when she offers him her hand, well, what's he going to do except reach out and take it, smiling slightly at her question.]
I'm never gonna win any awards for my dancin', but there're times I find it enjoyable.
[Right now could be one of them, maybe, with the foxtrot playing in the distance and the two of them standing right here, facing each other. Before he has time to think about it further -- and really, he often prefers to act on spontaneity rather than planned thought -- he pulls her closer, beginning the first steps of the dance.]
[He whisks her to her feet, taking her white hand in his, and it is such a silly little moment of indulgence, something which should be politely refused and turned away with the merest of lukewarm smiles. But the brief spark of mutual connection, no matter how shallow or fleeting, has them caught together in this moment, for better or for worse. Whether they will part as strangers or a little closer than before is up to chance, and it is a (dangerous, risky, foolish) chance to take, but one that they've taken and embraced with open arms.
She has never been much of a dancer, relying on the man to guide her through his lead, and the same goes for tonight. Her hands are slightly cool compared to the heat of his fingers, surprisingly sturdy and still, her slender weight resting against him. Attempting to match his steps with tentative movements, she squeezes a little tighter than necessary, betraying her nerves.
But then, why would she be anxious at all?]
I certainly hope this is one of those times.
[She chimes in, still speaking as if all the troubles in the world narrows down to whether her whims will be met or not, whether the music will keep playing and the drinks will keep liberally flowing. She is doing her utmost to dispel his image of her, distressed and as if about to cry, bothered by something as ridiculously trifling as morbid conversation. She has nearly made a terrible wreck of things, but to be fair, he is partly to blame, for demanding answers to questions which shouldn't be asked.
His hands feel rougher than a businessman's should be, patches of hard callouses pressed against her soft skin. Without a single word, he incites yet even more questions, with no answers supplied. No man ordered to attend gay little parties like this should feel so harsh to the touch, and again, the question lurks: Just who is he?]
[There are many, many things beyond dancing that he'd consider himself to have far more talent at. He always moves just a little stiffly, but then, he moves that way when he walks, too. At the very least, he's capable of leading someone through a foxtrot, especially someone who seems to willing to be led.
And yet he can see how nervous she is, which surprises him. Shouldn't someone like this, someone who's probably come to thousands upon thousands of parties, be used to dancing, or at least, not made anxious by it?
But those aren't questions he should ask of her, because he knows he's already distressed her, asking things that seem morbid and not particularly appropriate for the atmosphere of a party like this. He should probably just keep his mouth shut and concentrate on the dance, but he's never been great about keeping his thoughts to himself.
Still, he manages to lapse into silence for a moment, concentrating on the feeling of her soft hand, which is gripping his own rough hand so tightly, concentrating on the steps of the dance and of not making a fool out of either of them.]
[In this moment of quiet, the music freely fills in for the spaces between them, time seeming to slow while they put all their efforts into keeping up with the other's steps, and nothing else. Yet, the silence feels just as intimate as their conversation did, tip-toeing with such care around topics they should avoid, exchanging names and pleasantries but hardly knowing anything about one another, in the end. Her curiosity is burning at the forefront of her mind, the words already on her lips: Just what business are you in? But she is unable to ask, she finds that she doesn't want to ask, despite the urge to satisfy her interest in him.
She finds him very, oddly enough, interesting. It could just be his indirect way of answering, how he boldly propositions her with his own inquiries, how there has never been a man quite like him at one of these parties. He is not the same breed of polite gentlemen who constantly flock to her, or that of the ruthless gangster who lurks around the corners. He is an oddity in and of itself, since he first caught her eye in a suit of blue and a strange indifference to the world around him. Except when it comes to her: for some reason, she has caught his attention tonight, by miracle or by mistake.
The song ends, both far too quickly and seemingly after ages have passed, but Daisy falters. She doesn't break away from his arms—not instantaneously, at least. She remains still, clutching faintly at the warmth of his hand, as if straining her hearing for the crushing of dewy grass or the rustling of leaves, signalling the arrival of another person.
But no one else comes.]
Lying is a terrible habit, really. [She speaks first, sweating lightly from the exertion, or from the warm summer air. Finally, she moves away, her arms retreating to her sides. Their brief moment of contact is over, as is their charming dance.] I think your dancing is just adorable, Mr. Darmody.
[Jimmy doesn't always know how to fall silent, doesn't always know how to let himself stop talking and to just concentrate on the moment, on the calm, on the movements rather than on their voices, but he seems to manage it just fine, here. Maybe it's because he's afraid she's going to ask him question that he doesn't particularly want to answer (ones that will certainly break the mood, at the very least) or maybe it's because he knows that if he speaks, he'll undoubtedly ask her more questions that'll make her uncomfortable. It just seems to be what he does. It's not intentional, it's just inherent.
When the song ends, he's surprised to find that she doesn't draw away from him right away, though he's not at all surprised to find himself pleased by that fact. Yes, the fact that she's undeniably beautiful has a great deal to do with it -- he'd be stupid to tell himself otherwise -- but so does the fact that he's fascinated by her. There's something delicate about her, and yet...
And yet what? Maybe he's just trying to read mystery into a situation where there is none. Still, the fact that he'd found her sitting out here alone is enough to make him think there's more to her than meets the eye. He can't quite put his finger on it.]
'n I'm a terrible liar.
[Funny, how that could be taken a couple different ways. A bad liar, or terrible because he lies all the time, either way. She can take it how she wants.]
[She laughs, tittering behind her hand, delighted by how bluntly he states his compliments, as if his words are undeniable fact. It's nothing like the long, loving letters she has received in the past, singing her praises, or the gruff murmurs she had once believed and cherished with all her heart. But then, she had never pegged him to be a very romantic sort.]
You say awfully sweet things.
[It's a kind thought, all the same. That he even bothers to pay her a compliment at all is flattering. She has to admit, for such a sour turn the evening had taken before, their rendezvous is turning into a rather pleasant event. So long as they remain aware of themselves, sustaining the sense of superficial politeness between them. As long as they remember to keep their distance, and prevent stumbling into situations which are too close for comfort. The slight coolness in her demeanor tempers her enjoyment of the night, but so it must be. Dancing and chatting is all well and good, but if she forgets herself—if he forgets himself—
She is already walking on a thin, fraying tightrope as it is, with her husband's temper snapping at her heels. It is exhausting, between being the bitter wife and the adoring mistress, desperate to escape one world for the next, as if she can trade in gold for kisses and wealth for love. For a while, she prayed she could be happy that way, but even that is steadily unraveling, her balance slipping. Soon, the world will know, the papers will know, and her spouse will know. The time she has left to cherish her affair is slipping away as fast as the evening hours.
If she forgets herself—at the very least, the temporary happiness it yields would add yet another secret to her collection, and in the current state of things, she has enough secrets to feel suffocated by them all. Not that she would. Not that she is even tempted, to do something recklessly foolish with him. She must (or should) remain steadfast and unseduced by the low cadence to his voice, and his attractively straightforward mannerisms, and the lack of sugar coating which no other man has yet to afford her.
But remaining platonic does not mean lacking politeness, and to send him away would be very unpolite.]
You talk as if you're wicked, but you don't remind me of a single wicked thing.
[She has Gatsby. She has her beloved cousin and dear gaggle of friends, if not her own immediate family. She has a whole ensemble of people to socialize with and talk and dance with, just the same as she is doing with him. Nothing about tonight should feel wholly special, or unique, and yet—
And yet. The elusive cliff-hanger, the word which her mind continues to stumble over, struggling to finish her thought, always trailing off in a muddle of confusion. She should not, and yet—there is something.]
That's just 'cause you don't know me all that well yet.
[There's flirtation there, certainly, in adding the 'yet' to what could otherwise be a fairly straightforward observation. It's true, she doesn't really know him, not now, and perhaps not ever, and maybe that's for the best. She can continue to think he's just a somewhat blunt, somewhat aggressive guy whose true actions, whose true employment, who any number of things about remain a complete mystery.
If he were just the slightest bit more self-aware, he'd recognize that his blunt flirtations have a habit of getting him into trouble. Or maybe it's that he is self-aware, recognizes just how poorly being so frank with someone can go, especially someone he knows to be a married woman, and chooses to ignore it. He always has been fond of taking risks.]
So what do I remind you of?
[If not something wicked, then what? It's another one of those questions that might be just the slightest bit uncomfortable, that might just be pressing things a bit too far. It certainly has the possibility to be incisive, but that could also be the way he's gazing at her, blue eyes bright and wide, really waiting for an answer.
And yes, he has to admit, he's curious as to what she thinks of him, maybe through some odd form of egotism, maybe just because he likes that little laugh she'd given, the one she'd hidden behind her hand, and wants to keep talking to her in the hopes that he'll hear it again.]
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He nods. He takes another drag on his cigarette. And then speaks again, still almost lazily.]
And I'm askin' you.
[Pushing too hard for an answer? Probably, especially since he hadn't given her an adequate one himself, and he can see the way something about his vagueness had unsettled her. It's not hard to pick up on that, nor is it hard to pick up on the way she transforms that uneasiness into a laugh, because she must assume he's just being amusing, teasing her in some way. Better she think that than think the alternative, he figures. She obviously has no idea who he is, not by name or by reputation, and there's a part of him that'd like to keep it that way.]
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It doesn't matter terribly, does it? [She can hear her voice falter, but she has a feeling that this Mr. Darmody is not the type to be distracted by laughter and flattery. His persistence in knowing her mind alone strikes a sour note, but at the same time, it's so unusual to be asked at all.]
I think... [Who would care what a woman thinks? Not many of the guests here would care for the word of a woman, even one married into a wealthy empire, when there is liquor to taste and fireworks to admire. But he wants to know, and at his unsubtle prompting, she folds beneath the pressure, struggling for the right words. Her voice trails off, before finally picking up again.]
I think I'm just a fool. There's nothing to me at all.
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[That's probably far too philosophical and cynical of a statement to be making to someone he barely knows, at what's meant to be a nice party, in a garden this lovely and alive. But he can't deny that that's the way his brain operates, though it may surprise some, to hear him spout these things which sound so very defeatist.
Her next words intrigue him, though. Most people wouldn't hasten to describe themselves as fools, especially not those who really are fools (they are, he's found, generally the least self-aware of all. His cigarette is fully smoked now, and he drops it onto the grass, grinding out the remainder of it with his shoe, wondering if it's horribly rude to drop his cigarette butts all over this place, then deciding he doesn't care.]
Even fools have somethin' to them, don't they?
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[There is just a tinge of desperation in her tone, betraying the tension she has kept tightly bound within her. He is full of contradictions: he is interested in her, and generous, and willing to listen—but then, he is also ominous, and mysterious, and speaks of such unhappy things, pushing her into uncomfortable territories of conversation. He intrudes upon her world of light and lace and luxuries, and his brand of reality and cynicism is too bitter a medicine for her to swallow, tonight.
His question is deliberately ignored, neatly and quietly set aside. He can ask such questions, deeply intimate and far too private to divulge to a stranger, because he possesses an air of utter confidence, as if entitled to know her every secret. But she cannot, and chooses not to, even if she had been given the option. She is just "Darling Daisy"—but a daisy wouldn't be so darling if it asked questions, anymore.
She averts her attention to her cigarette, pulling in deep breaths, watching him through the smoke and the heat of the summer night, as if he is just a mirage she has conjured. Just what city, she wonders, has brought up such a man?]
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No, we don't have to. We can talk about whatever you want.
[Or not talk at all, if she feels that he's intruded upon her privacy too long. It seems very likely that she had been out here seeking some kind of solitude, after all, and he'd barged into it in his characteristically bold way. That doesn't mean, however, that he's going to leave unless she tells him to, unless she tells him that she has absolutely no interest in having a conversation whatsoever.
He'd like to have someone to talk to this evening. Someone not involved with business. Someone who doesn't have an ulterior motive. Someone he doesn't have to worry about stabbing him in the back -- or in the front.]
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I'm sorry— [There's no reason for her to make amends, but she feels obliged to apologize, just the same. The tranquil atmosphere in the garden is fragile enough, without her making a scene. She shrugs her shoulder, and her smile is a bit more genuine, or at least more convincing.] I've probably had too much to drink.
[She has touched the wine tonight, but not enough that she has lost her inhibitions entirely. It is the simplest excuse to think of, better than to explain the chill of discomfort he had brought upon her. She takes a seat on the low bench, carved from what looks like white marble, her gaze drifting down into her lap.
This is not, however, an unspoken request for his departure.]
Did you come here with someone? [She remembers, vaguely, the masked man.]
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[It's a way of accepting the apology, nevertheless. He recognizes that some people feel the need to apologize for things they don't necessarily need to make amends for. Some people simply feel the need to take the burden of being polite and making things right onto themselves. Maybe she's one of those people. Maybe she really has had too much to drink, although he doesn't think she seems drunk, precisely, and he's spent enough time around drunk people to be able to tell.]
Yeah, I did. A business partner. A friend. You probably saw him.
[He doesn't feel the need to call attention to Richard's mask if she hadn't noticed it, and if she had, she'll know who he's talking about immediately. He feels protective of Richard, doesn't want to say more about him than he has to, doesn't want to give anyone ammunition to use against him. That's all he needs to say about that. He's tempted to join her on the bench, but he doesn't. That might be pushing things too far.]
Did you?
[He assumes so. A husband, most likely. If he hadn't seen her ring, he'd still have assumed she came here with a man. It's hard to fathom someone who looks like she does going anywhere without someone following close behind, interested in romancing her.]
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[And her cousin, and others, but her personal business is not his to ponder over. And it would be in poor taste, doubtlessly, to flaunt her connections to a man who has come with only one guest of his own.
She doesn't bother to explain her circumstances any further to him, why her spouse is not accompanying her this late into the night, but the slight cynical twist to her lips is enough to reveal she has less than kind thoughts. The ruination of her hollow marriage, and the fact that her husband has sneaked away somewhere with a girl younger than she, those are all the sort of bitter topics she wishes to avoid.
There's a ring on his finger, the dull gold of which she can see in the moonlight. But just as he graciously allows the change of topic, it isn't her place to ask of his private life, either, and so the quiet between them stretches on for just a few moments longer. In a party as large as this, there is a sense of anonymity to this clandestine meeting—when she entered the garden, no one had seen her, and when he leaves, he will slip in amongst the guests, and his presence here will be just as easily forgotten.]
Would you like to sit down?
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So he just nods politely. That's the safe thing to do (not that he always cares about being safe -- in fact, half the time, he seems to go out of his way to avoid being safe entirely, always pushing things too far, always taking the risks he shouldn't; it's a constant problem, but not one that he's figured out how to put a stop to.)]
Sure, thanks.
[He moves towards the bench, an odd combination of tentativeness and confidence in his gait, and sits down beside her. Not too close, not inappropriately so, but then, it's not a large bench, either.]
D'you come to a lot of parties?
[She seems like the type, and maybe that's all he wants to know. Or maybe it's a question of whether he's likely to run into her again.]
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[There's a risk, in uttering his name. As if, just by speaking of him, she might reveal her adoration in how she forms the letters, how she cradles that familiar name and the very sound of it makes her voice flutter in high notes. No one, she is tentatively certain, saw her and the host of this lavish soiree disappear off into the greenery for quite a length of time, and even if someone had—well, he cannot possibly connect the name to the man. After all, as everyone is so fond of repeating, Gatsby is a man of many rumors, and no one has ever seen his face.
He sits a short distance from her, and mentally, she is still trying to navigate how much is respectful and how much would be scandalous. Not that there is anything warranting scandal about them, having an innocent conversation, but—people talk. They say her lover is the son of an evil king, a man who kills for fun, a murderer, cruel and ruthless to the bone—and if gossipers knew of their relation, what would that make her? The mistress of a rumored killer? If those party-goers can spin gossip from even the slightest foundation of truth, lies could be spooled from nothing at all.
Perhaps, she shouldn't allow his presence, but it's not her garden to banish him from.]
I do adore parties. [She breaks in, but the excitement which would normally carry her words is subdued, somehow. Finally she pinches the burning remains of her cigarette out, breathing out the last of it. She leans forward to rest her elbows on her knees, cupping her face in her hands.] They excite me.
Do you attend many?
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[And maybe he should like parties better than he does. He's always been good at making his own entertainment, after all, and there's plenty that parties offer in the way of diversions. An odd conversation in a private garden is just one of those things, and he has to admit, he's enjoying this. But this, what they're doing right here, isn't precisely a party, is it? It just happens to be attached to one. It's a moment of calm outside of the whirlwind inside. And it sounds as though she enjoys the whirlwind much more than he himself does.]
Or when someone tells me I gotta attend one.
[Because there're plenty of those, too, aren't there? Parties he'd never go to on his own, ones where he feels self-conscious and out of his depth, trying to navigate in a world that everyone had always wanted him to prepare himself for but that he's never quite fit into, no matter who his father is, no matter who had raised him. He shrugs, as though it's perfectly normal to be instructed to attend parties, and maybe it is; everyone has business they must attend to, or families to please, and for him, those two things are almost synonymous.
But she still doesn't seem to know who he is, and he wonders whether, if she knew who he worked for, who he associated with, she'd recognize those names, either. She's described herself as a fool, but he doubts that she's completely unaware of what's going on in the world around her. Just by sitting here, just by speaking to her, does he somehow exude the telltale signs of being a criminal, a gangster, someone doomed to hell, from his very pores?]
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[Bewilderment gives way to wonder, turning to glance up curiously at his reply. As cool and composed as he is, she wouldn't have figured him to enjoy lavish events; as he said, it was "for business". But to be ordered to attend...that just adds another layer of intrigue.]
What do you do?
[She asks, on a whim, watching his expression. The atmosphere had struck her as romantic, before, with fireflies casting a dim glow and feeling so secluded from the rest of the world—but now, it feels only slightly cold and vacant, without a hand to hold or a warm shoulder to rest against, having a conversation which is just as odd as the man before her.
She should have gone inside, long ago: it is surely an obscene hour, so early into the morning it is indistinguishable from night. If not for the intrusion, she would have fled to wait in the comfort of indoors. But this far into their little talk, it would be brutish to leave without notice, and—and, she likes the frank cadence of his voice.
She has so very few friends, these days, she thinks she wouldn't mind just one more.]
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[That's a simple enough statement, but it's bleak, too. It's true; he takes orders, always has. He'd done it when he'd been in the army, and he does it now that he's back home. He'd thought he'd become his own man, thought he'd blossom into whatever it was people were expecting of him (to be his father's son, whatever that meant, or to be like Nucky's son, which was easier to imagine but harder to achieve, somehow) but he'd come back to a place where he did what he was told to do, just like he'd done when he was gone.
And was it really so different than being away at war? Different kind of trenches, sure, but trenches all the same.]
I help facilitate business deals. That means I show up at a lot of parties.
[It sounds better than calling himself an enforcer, but the implication is there, nevertheless, if she cares to look for it. It's not like he's ashamed at what he does, precisely. Why should he be? It's a job, like any other, and besides, he's already pretty goddamn certain that he's going to hell. He's been destined for that for a long time. At this point, what's it going to matter if he adds a couple more crimes to the endless tally of them?]
What do you do?
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It terrifies as much as it exhilarates her.
She wonders if he's being vague for the sole purpose of teasing her, or if another reason lies behind his deliberate silences. Law enforcement? Or something more? She decides not to dwell on that particular thought, instead raising her hand to stifle a smile at his question. As if she could work—she is too frail, too soft to be exposed to the world of corporate beasts—as if he doesn't see the wealth which clings to her as silver and furs.]
I stay at home.
[She corrects him delicately, to show she hadn't been amused at his expense. And really, that is all she does: occasionally she visits the golfing tournaments, or attends opulent gatherings, but on the whole when her spouse is gone and her friends are absent, there is little else to do than sit by oneself in a room void of life and laughter.]
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[Because nobody could simply sit at home and do nothing, could they? Angela stays home, too, but she paints, she has things to pass her time, and he's glad for it, because it means he can feel moderately less guilty when he's away for days at a time, when he's away like he is right now, spending the evening in a secluded garden with someone he barely knows, someone very beautiful. It's not the first time it's happened, and it likely won't be the last.
And again, he recognizes, he's pressing her. Asking her for more than she'd offered, and maybe he should simply take her at her word. Maybe she really is a fool, who does nothing at all, who obviously has money, but, from the way she tells it, very little in the way of substance, save attending these parties. Somehow, though, he doesn't believe that's all there is to her.
Is it just a desire to read more into people than what's really there? He's always been inclined to pry, inclined to dig too deeply, but for just a second, he wonders what it is he sees in her that makes him poke at her in this way. It's teasing, in a sense, but genuinely curious, too, more pointed than simple idle banter.]
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There's the radio. I drink, I dance, I wait for company to visit. [Saying it now, she is acutely aware of how lonely it must sound, isolated in white rooms with only servants for company, and she hastens to add:]
If they do visit, we have a marvelous time. It's usually a—a very nice time.
[But somehow, her efforts to sound impressive just feel all the more desperate to endear to him. People don't ask what she does, they just assume she must have a bursting agenda. With all the money in the world, who cares for what she occupies her time with? She is the wife of a man of prestige and pride, the friend of celebrities, the center of a hive of gossip. People just assume that she is naturally joyous, with possessions replacing human interaction. Who needs the touch of a lover or the conversation of a close companion when there are so many incessant things to purchase?]
What about when you're not working?
[She turns the topic to him, anything to keep the air light between them.]
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And then, of course, she's turning the question back around on him, as he should have expected she would, and he chuckles quietly.]
Well, not golf. You'd have me beat at that.
[Because he does hear that pride in her voice, and thinks she must be very talented at the sport, and he's never quite gotten the hang of it. He's too clumsy, maybe, or his movements are too sweeping and huge.]
I guess I do all the normal kinda things. I spend time with my son, usually on the beach, I spend time with my wife [When she wants to spend time with him, which seems to be happening less and less these days.] I read, I drink, I've got all kindsa interests.
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Another woman, she thinks, might demand why is he here, practically alone in this party, in this garden, talking to her and asking her a whole myriad of questions. Flirting, almost, blurring the borders between milquetoast politeness and deeply personal inquiries. But, she is not the sort of woman to foist her opinions on others, and she certainly lacks the sort of fire that a more spirited woman would have, in order to voice such demands.]
All kind of interests?
[She repeats, curious in the way she knows she shouldn't be. She watches him closely, as if trying to divulge what those interests could be, just from sight alone. When she speaks next, the slow burn of the South creeps thickly into her voice: a sweet, relaxed drawl which encourages a sense of trust between them. Somewhere, a foxtrot starts up in the distance, to a raucous wave of cheers. With the first few notes straining through the night air, it only takes her a moment to make up her mind. To not turn away, to not excuse herself inside, although by all means, she should. Gatsby will be looking for her. Worse, her husband will be looking for her. And yet...]
I don't suppose dancing is one of them?
[She remembers the flare of terror, of frustration and desperation, inquiring to her lover in low, heated tones exchanged between kisses: Can't we just have fun, like we used to? Why must theirs be a secret worth revealing, why must he not be content with her kingdom of lights, why must they tell Tom?
Mr. Darmody, however, offers a fine distraction from those dizzying questions. She offers him her hand, half-teasing.]
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[That's vague enough to mean just about anything, and he figures each person who meets him'll assume differently, depending on how they see him. He's curious as to what type of assumptions someone like her would make about him, but he supposes he has time to find out, if they keep talking. Talking to her is far more enjoyable than the rest of the party, anyway; a moment away from the chaos inside, chaos that can so easily feel overwhelming and crushing. He wonders if she feels the same way.
And when she offers him her hand, well, what's he going to do except reach out and take it, smiling slightly at her question.]
I'm never gonna win any awards for my dancin', but there're times I find it enjoyable.
[Right now could be one of them, maybe, with the foxtrot playing in the distance and the two of them standing right here, facing each other. Before he has time to think about it further -- and really, he often prefers to act on spontaneity rather than planned thought -- he pulls her closer, beginning the first steps of the dance.]
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She has never been much of a dancer, relying on the man to guide her through his lead, and the same goes for tonight. Her hands are slightly cool compared to the heat of his fingers, surprisingly sturdy and still, her slender weight resting against him. Attempting to match his steps with tentative movements, she squeezes a little tighter than necessary, betraying her nerves.
But then, why would she be anxious at all?]
I certainly hope this is one of those times.
[She chimes in, still speaking as if all the troubles in the world narrows down to whether her whims will be met or not, whether the music will keep playing and the drinks will keep liberally flowing. She is doing her utmost to dispel his image of her, distressed and as if about to cry, bothered by something as ridiculously trifling as morbid conversation. She has nearly made a terrible wreck of things, but to be fair, he is partly to blame, for demanding answers to questions which shouldn't be asked.
His hands feel rougher than a businessman's should be, patches of hard callouses pressed against her soft skin. Without a single word, he incites yet even more questions, with no answers supplied. No man ordered to attend gay little parties like this should feel so harsh to the touch, and again, the question lurks: Just who is he?]
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[There are many, many things beyond dancing that he'd consider himself to have far more talent at. He always moves just a little stiffly, but then, he moves that way when he walks, too. At the very least, he's capable of leading someone through a foxtrot, especially someone who seems to willing to be led.
And yet he can see how nervous she is, which surprises him. Shouldn't someone like this, someone who's probably come to thousands upon thousands of parties, be used to dancing, or at least, not made anxious by it?
But those aren't questions he should ask of her, because he knows he's already distressed her, asking things that seem morbid and not particularly appropriate for the atmosphere of a party like this. He should probably just keep his mouth shut and concentrate on the dance, but he's never been great about keeping his thoughts to himself.
Still, he manages to lapse into silence for a moment, concentrating on the feeling of her soft hand, which is gripping his own rough hand so tightly, concentrating on the steps of the dance and of not making a fool out of either of them.]
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She finds him very, oddly enough, interesting. It could just be his indirect way of answering, how he boldly propositions her with his own inquiries, how there has never been a man quite like him at one of these parties. He is not the same breed of polite gentlemen who constantly flock to her, or that of the ruthless gangster who lurks around the corners. He is an oddity in and of itself, since he first caught her eye in a suit of blue and a strange indifference to the world around him. Except when it comes to her: for some reason, she has caught his attention tonight, by miracle or by mistake.
The song ends, both far too quickly and seemingly after ages have passed, but Daisy falters. She doesn't break away from his arms—not instantaneously, at least. She remains still, clutching faintly at the warmth of his hand, as if straining her hearing for the crushing of dewy grass or the rustling of leaves, signalling the arrival of another person.
But no one else comes.]
Lying is a terrible habit, really. [She speaks first, sweating lightly from the exertion, or from the warm summer air. Finally, she moves away, her arms retreating to her sides. Their brief moment of contact is over, as is their charming dance.] I think your dancing is just adorable, Mr. Darmody.
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When the song ends, he's surprised to find that she doesn't draw away from him right away, though he's not at all surprised to find himself pleased by that fact. Yes, the fact that she's undeniably beautiful has a great deal to do with it -- he'd be stupid to tell himself otherwise -- but so does the fact that he's fascinated by her. There's something delicate about her, and yet...
And yet what? Maybe he's just trying to read mystery into a situation where there is none. Still, the fact that he'd found her sitting out here alone is enough to make him think there's more to her than meets the eye. He can't quite put his finger on it.]
'n I'm a terrible liar.
[Funny, how that could be taken a couple different ways. A bad liar, or terrible because he lies all the time, either way. She can take it how she wants.]
Your dancin' ain't half bad, either.
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You say awfully sweet things.
[It's a kind thought, all the same. That he even bothers to pay her a compliment at all is flattering. She has to admit, for such a sour turn the evening had taken before, their rendezvous is turning into a rather pleasant event. So long as they remain aware of themselves, sustaining the sense of superficial politeness between them. As long as they remember to keep their distance, and prevent stumbling into situations which are too close for comfort. The slight coolness in her demeanor tempers her enjoyment of the night, but so it must be. Dancing and chatting is all well and good, but if she forgets herself—if he forgets himself—
She is already walking on a thin, fraying tightrope as it is, with her husband's temper snapping at her heels. It is exhausting, between being the bitter wife and the adoring mistress, desperate to escape one world for the next, as if she can trade in gold for kisses and wealth for love. For a while, she prayed she could be happy that way, but even that is steadily unraveling, her balance slipping. Soon, the world will know, the papers will know, and her spouse will know. The time she has left to cherish her affair is slipping away as fast as the evening hours.
If she forgets herself—at the very least, the temporary happiness it yields would add yet another secret to her collection, and in the current state of things, she has enough secrets to feel suffocated by them all. Not that she would. Not that she is even tempted, to do something recklessly foolish with him. She must (or should) remain steadfast and unseduced by the low cadence to his voice, and his attractively straightforward mannerisms, and the lack of sugar coating which no other man has yet to afford her.
But remaining platonic does not mean lacking politeness, and to send him away would be very unpolite.]
You talk as if you're wicked, but you don't remind me of a single wicked thing.
[She has Gatsby. She has her beloved cousin and dear gaggle of friends, if not her own immediate family. She has a whole ensemble of people to socialize with and talk and dance with, just the same as she is doing with him. Nothing about tonight should feel wholly special, or unique, and yet—
And yet. The elusive cliff-hanger, the word which her mind continues to stumble over, struggling to finish her thought, always trailing off in a muddle of confusion. She should not, and yet—there is something.]
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[There's flirtation there, certainly, in adding the 'yet' to what could otherwise be a fairly straightforward observation. It's true, she doesn't really know him, not now, and perhaps not ever, and maybe that's for the best. She can continue to think he's just a somewhat blunt, somewhat aggressive guy whose true actions, whose true employment, who any number of things about remain a complete mystery.
If he were just the slightest bit more self-aware, he'd recognize that his blunt flirtations have a habit of getting him into trouble. Or maybe it's that he is self-aware, recognizes just how poorly being so frank with someone can go, especially someone he knows to be a married woman, and chooses to ignore it. He always has been fond of taking risks.]
So what do I remind you of?
[If not something wicked, then what? It's another one of those questions that might be just the slightest bit uncomfortable, that might just be pressing things a bit too far. It certainly has the possibility to be incisive, but that could also be the way he's gazing at her, blue eyes bright and wide, really waiting for an answer.
And yes, he has to admit, he's curious as to what she thinks of him, maybe through some odd form of egotism, maybe just because he likes that little laugh she'd given, the one she'd hidden behind her hand, and wants to keep talking to her in the hopes that he'll hear it again.]
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