[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
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.]