[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.]
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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.]