[His voice breaks the silence between them, and the sound almost makes her startle, still hearing the wild racing of her heart and her own shallow breathing in her ears, unprepared for what he offers her next. She tilts her face up, meeting his gaze at last, not expecting the innocent invitation to dance—what she had been expecting was something quite different, and she feels a rush of sweet relief that he is not the sort of brutish man who takes what he wants, that one of them has the sense to prevent—
What-ever this may be.]
Just for a little while.
[She agrees softly, a hint of reluctance—or a somber, wistful quality—to her voice. She submits to his request, just as she meekly folded beneath pressure before. She could no more ask him to leave any more than she could refuse to dance with him. It could have to do with that he is charming and intriguing in his own little devious ways, that he affords her a distraction, or that his touch is warm and she feels cold from neglect, even in the bayou warmth of this sticky-sweet summer night.
Here they are again, on the precipice. She takes his hand once more, hers looking very small and slender within his, squeezing lightly. She takes a hesitant step forward, her other hand reaching out rest on his shoulder, her fingers curling over the dark blue of his suit. The music is a faint din, hardly audible. The rhythm is barely discernible, and it is already difficult enough to dance when they could hear it crystal-clear.
She wonders if he already knew before offering, if it's not just a dance at all he is after. More troubling, she wonders why she has not broken away from him yet, why he persists in keeping in her company, and why she has not refused his advances. Ugly words—muttered only in the thick of drunken rage—rise to the surface of her mind, much too vile and revolting to repeat. Things she has been accused of being, things that she knows she will be accused of, if the truth is ever brought to light. Every unsavory and terrible name for a woman—of course, Tom had apologized profusely once he had sobered up, kissing her bruises and offering her more boxes of sweets and jewelry. But now, she remembers those foul names, and she feels a hot burn of shame, wondering if those names do not suit her, after all?
It is just a dance, she reminds herself. An innocent dance, a playful and perfectly reputable way to pass the time.]
[It's an agreement with her, but it's also a reminder to himself. He still has business to attend to, tonight, as much as he'd like to ignore it, and he shouldn't get caught up out here in the garden, spending all his time with someone he barely even knows, as much as he'd like to. The fact that they can now say that they're on a first name basis means very little, really, and he knows it, but there's something alluring about it, too. Something that makes him want to stay for more than just one dance.
But there's time to think about that later. His hand goes to her waist, his grip firm and confident but not aggressive, not crushing. He wonders for a second why he's doing this, why it's dancing, of all things, that he's chosen, when in actuality, dancing has never been one of his strong suits, especially not since returning home from the war with such a noticeable limp.
Still, this is what he's offered, and this is what he finds he wants, and though there's really no rhythm to it at all, though they're really just swaying slowly back and forth to music that neither of them can hear, he finds it pleasant. It feels oddly safe, despite the fact that anyone who ventured into the garden now would very likely observe them and find what they're doing to be questionable, at the very least. It's too intimate for strangers, and yet, he can still call it innocent in his own mind.
Plausible deniability. That's what it's all about. That's what everything in his life seems to be about these days.
It would be so easy, from here, to lean in for a kiss, to let his hands stray away from her waist and seek out considerably less innocent venues. But he won't do that -- not because he doesn't want to, but because he doesn't want to break this thin thread of trust there seems to be between them (or maybe he's just imagining it there, or wanting it to be there.) Either way, it's just a dance, and he'll keep reminding himself of that fact, albeit a very slow, fairly rhythmless one.]
[One dance, and then he disappears from her life forever. As it should be: she has enough complications in her life, she has enchanted (and been enchanted by) enough men, she has had her heart broken for so many years that it aches to count them all, she has grown jaded and tired of so much of everything, like a black heart borne from the glamor of a lustrous pearl.
She is still wary of the low clatter of footsteps, or the rustle of flowers and tree branches snapping underfoot, but there is only the ghostly echo of the band to be heard. Swaying to some phantom tune, she imagines all the things she could say: I didn't mean it, what I said before. She could explain: When I said everything was lovely and wonderful. It was perfect, for a short while. She could bare herself for a moment of honesty, revealing to him something bitter and dark which she tries so hard to sweeten with the luxuries she can afford. She could lay herself vulnerable and confess all the things she has stored up her in heart, having fallen on deaf ears countless of times: But in the end, everything is becoming just awful. And it's the most morbid thing of all.
None of this, however, is ever spoken.
Rather, she appreciates the solid warmth of his hand against her hip, not minding the slight limp complicating their rhythm, and presses herself closer into his arms. She exhales, her breathing uneven and fragile, her eyes closing to ward off the pressing tension, distracting her from this moment, trying not to allow her emotions to overcome her, to give him the kindest goodbye she can.]
[It's usually difficult for him to stop talking, to let a moment go by silently without filling it with some kind of chatter, but he's silent here, made silent by the way she's pressing slightly closer, perhaps, or just lulled into silence by the rhythm they seem to have found. She feels so delicate, and he still wonders so many things about her, but he knows he's never going to have the chance to discover them.
Maybe that's for the best.
It's hard to tell how long their dance goes on, because they're not paying attention to the music, not following along with what everyone else inside is very likely doing, and for what feels like a considerable period of time, he's content to just move with her, trying not to think about all the things he's going to need to do soon. This has been an unexpected and enjoyable distraction, but he'll be back to the real world quickly enough.
And then, finally, when the dance seems to have come to an end -- he's not sure why, but the time feels right for it, and he's always been so guided by impulse and instinct -- he does bend down, just for a moment, to press a kiss to her forehead before letting go of her waist. It's gentle, and almost, almost sweet, in a strange way.]
[It has been a pleasant interlude, but that is all that it is—an interlude. Merely a short respite from reality before she is ushered back inside, before she rejoins her husband, the weight of pearls and diamond necklaces like hands closing around her vulnerable throat. Their odd course of conversation, the undertone of something darker and somber in their words, all but forgotten as their slow dancing comes to a gradual end. His hands vanish from her waist, and she is just as quick to retrieve her own hands from his shoulders.
For how unbearably polite they had been, attempting to be on their best behavior to the stranger before them, the sentimental press of his lips against her forehead is at once affectionate and ill-suited as a parting gesture. Truthfully, a handshake would feel just as artificial as any rehearsed farewells, but a kiss—a kiss is just too much. Too intimate, too visceral, something that is better shared between even the meekest of lovers, not them. Lovers would taken it all in stride, lovers would have long forgotten dancing in favor of all scandalous sorts of ways to pass the time, lovers would have been far more bolder and blunter and—well, not that it applies to them.
She should have recoiled, but it's far too late. All she can do to return the favor is to smile, graciously and sweetly. And, just because they are being rather silly and sentimental, swept up in the fever of summer, she dips her head and spreads out the lace edges of her skirt in a little old-fashioned curtsey.]
[The curtsey makes him smile, even if he does feel slightly odd about the kiss, like he'd crossed some kind of invisible line that he perhaps shouldn't have, or, at least, that he should have been aware was there. It probably doesn't mean anything, not really, but maybe it had been a bad idea, anyway.
There's nothing for it now, and he's not going to apologize, because that seems like a bad note to leave on. All the same, he does need to leave, and he's well aware that he'll probably never see her again, unless he runs into her at another party like this. There's a chance, maybe, but...
... well, that's not for thinking about, either.]
Bye.
[And with that, he's turning away, heading back for the noise and light and chaos of the party, not offering a 'see you later' or anything particularly reassuring, not the formalities and niceties that most people give when they're parting ways.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
What-ever this may be.]
Just for a little while.
[She agrees softly, a hint of reluctance—or a somber, wistful quality—to her voice. She submits to his request, just as she meekly folded beneath pressure before. She could no more ask him to leave any more than she could refuse to dance with him. It could have to do with that he is charming and intriguing in his own little devious ways, that he affords her a distraction, or that his touch is warm and she feels cold from neglect, even in the bayou warmth of this sticky-sweet summer night.
Here they are again, on the precipice. She takes his hand once more, hers looking very small and slender within his, squeezing lightly. She takes a hesitant step forward, her other hand reaching out rest on his shoulder, her fingers curling over the dark blue of his suit. The music is a faint din, hardly audible. The rhythm is barely discernible, and it is already difficult enough to dance when they could hear it crystal-clear.
She wonders if he already knew before offering, if it's not just a dance at all he is after. More troubling, she wonders why she has not broken away from him yet, why he persists in keeping in her company, and why she has not refused his advances. Ugly words—muttered only in the thick of drunken rage—rise to the surface of her mind, much too vile and revolting to repeat. Things she has been accused of being, things that she knows she will be accused of, if the truth is ever brought to light. Every unsavory and terrible name for a woman—of course, Tom had apologized profusely once he had sobered up, kissing her bruises and offering her more boxes of sweets and jewelry. But now, she remembers those foul names, and she feels a hot burn of shame, wondering if those names do not suit her, after all?
It is just a dance, she reminds herself. An innocent dance, a playful and perfectly reputable way to pass the time.]
no subject
[It's an agreement with her, but it's also a reminder to himself. He still has business to attend to, tonight, as much as he'd like to ignore it, and he shouldn't get caught up out here in the garden, spending all his time with someone he barely even knows, as much as he'd like to. The fact that they can now say that they're on a first name basis means very little, really, and he knows it, but there's something alluring about it, too. Something that makes him want to stay for more than just one dance.
But there's time to think about that later. His hand goes to her waist, his grip firm and confident but not aggressive, not crushing. He wonders for a second why he's doing this, why it's dancing, of all things, that he's chosen, when in actuality, dancing has never been one of his strong suits, especially not since returning home from the war with such a noticeable limp.
Still, this is what he's offered, and this is what he finds he wants, and though there's really no rhythm to it at all, though they're really just swaying slowly back and forth to music that neither of them can hear, he finds it pleasant. It feels oddly safe, despite the fact that anyone who ventured into the garden now would very likely observe them and find what they're doing to be questionable, at the very least. It's too intimate for strangers, and yet, he can still call it innocent in his own mind.
Plausible deniability. That's what it's all about. That's what everything in his life seems to be about these days.
It would be so easy, from here, to lean in for a kiss, to let his hands stray away from her waist and seek out considerably less innocent venues. But he won't do that -- not because he doesn't want to, but because he doesn't want to break this thin thread of trust there seems to be between them (or maybe he's just imagining it there, or wanting it to be there.) Either way, it's just a dance, and he'll keep reminding himself of that fact, albeit a very slow, fairly rhythmless one.]
no subject
She is still wary of the low clatter of footsteps, or the rustle of flowers and tree branches snapping underfoot, but there is only the ghostly echo of the band to be heard. Swaying to some phantom tune, she imagines all the things she could say: I didn't mean it, what I said before. She could explain: When I said everything was lovely and wonderful. It was perfect, for a short while. She could bare herself for a moment of honesty, revealing to him something bitter and dark which she tries so hard to sweeten with the luxuries she can afford. She could lay herself vulnerable and confess all the things she has stored up her in heart, having fallen on deaf ears countless of times: But in the end, everything is becoming just awful. And it's the most morbid thing of all.
None of this, however, is ever spoken.
Rather, she appreciates the solid warmth of his hand against her hip, not minding the slight limp complicating their rhythm, and presses herself closer into his arms. She exhales, her breathing uneven and fragile, her eyes closing to ward off the pressing tension, distracting her from this moment, trying not to allow her emotions to overcome her, to give him the kindest goodbye she can.]
no subject
Maybe that's for the best.
It's hard to tell how long their dance goes on, because they're not paying attention to the music, not following along with what everyone else inside is very likely doing, and for what feels like a considerable period of time, he's content to just move with her, trying not to think about all the things he's going to need to do soon. This has been an unexpected and enjoyable distraction, but he'll be back to the real world quickly enough.
And then, finally, when the dance seems to have come to an end -- he's not sure why, but the time feels right for it, and he's always been so guided by impulse and instinct -- he does bend down, just for a moment, to press a kiss to her forehead before letting go of her waist. It's gentle, and almost, almost sweet, in a strange way.]
Thanks.
no subject
For how unbearably polite they had been, attempting to be on their best behavior to the stranger before them, the sentimental press of his lips against her forehead is at once affectionate and ill-suited as a parting gesture. Truthfully, a handshake would feel just as artificial as any rehearsed farewells, but a kiss—a kiss is just too much. Too intimate, too visceral, something that is better shared between even the meekest of lovers, not them. Lovers would taken it all in stride, lovers would have long forgotten dancing in favor of all scandalous sorts of ways to pass the time, lovers would have been far more bolder and blunter and—well, not that it applies to them.
She should have recoiled, but it's far too late. All she can do to return the favor is to smile, graciously and sweetly. And, just because they are being rather silly and sentimental, swept up in the fever of summer, she dips her head and spreads out the lace edges of her skirt in a little old-fashioned curtsey.]
You're absolutely welcome.
no subject
There's nothing for it now, and he's not going to apologize, because that seems like a bad note to leave on. All the same, he does need to leave, and he's well aware that he'll probably never see her again, unless he runs into her at another party like this. There's a chance, maybe, but...
... well, that's not for thinking about, either.]
Bye.
[And with that, he's turning away, heading back for the noise and light and chaos of the party, not offering a 'see you later' or anything particularly reassuring, not the formalities and niceties that most people give when they're parting ways.]