fic: small talk
Guess who had nothing better to do on her snow-day.
small talk
“get your glad-rags on doris, we’re going to a party.” 979 words. pg-13
“Get your glad-rags on Doris, we’re going to a party.”
Dolores, not Doris, she almost sighs but stops halfway.
The parties are never much fun these days, since Billy’s plane went down, last summer. And she can no longer tell the difference between cause and effect.
It’s the story of which came first - the chicken or the egg.
Of course, she’s right and the party’s shit. They’re playing American songs on the gramophone, and smoking American cigarettes like they’re back in Boston or New York or wherever it was they said they came from. And Dolores really should hate them - this is England after all and they could at least try the beer.
But they bring her cigarettes and stockings and tell her she’s pretty. Billy always used to remind her that they weren’t Nazis and these days, that’s all that matters.
She used to know a German girl. The kind you only see in the cinemas now - long and lean with blonde hair and blue eyes. Dolores never told Billy about the German who wasn’t a Nazi.
He wouldn’t have believed her, anyway.
“You know, Doris, I think you need to lighten up a bit.” He taps his fingers on the table, an irregular beat of three, and she watches as his lips curl into a grin.
“Dolores,” she corrects him automatically; “there is a war on, Donald.”
He runs a thumb across her cheek when she turns to meet his gaze, “You, Doris, get to call me Donny.”
“Lucky me.”
It’s gone midnight, but he’s still in the drawing room. There’s a cigarette between his teeth and a pack of cards in his hands.
“Wanna play?”
“You’re up late.” Her voice is neutral.
“I’ll try again - you wanna play?”
When she nods her smile is warm.
Her hair looks longer when it’s damp, the blonde waves curling around her face. She flushes when she sees him watching her, ducking her head and smiling. “Are we going to play, then?”
He counts aloud as he deals the cards, each number twice. Their knuckles brush each other when she reaches forward to take the cards.
He wins the first game, she wins the next three.
When she wishes him goodnight she kisses him on the cheek, standing on tiptoes and resting a hand on his chest (the way she used to with Billy).
He starts calling her Dolores on a Tuesday. She stops dreaming about Billy on a Tuesday, too.
They intercept on a Friday.
He’s back from bombing the Nazis or whatever it is he does in his fighter-jet, smiling at her across the kitchen table. She’s reading the newspaper, glancing at him when she turns the page.
“You’re gonna get frown lines.” He says, and when she rolls her eyes he chuckles.
When she stands and turns to leave he reaches out to grab her arm. She pretends she doesn’t notice.
She wears a red dress to the party.
It dips low on her chest, lower than she’d like and when Donny knocks on her door she flushes, despite herself. She watches his eyes trace the neckline, and her fingers curling around the edge of her dressing table.
“Do you like it?”
His voice is low, and she can almost hear it rasp against his throat. “You’re beautiful.”
There’s a dark sparkle in his eye that tells her he means it.
The Corporal’s house is big and soon everyone’s in the ball room, hiccupping along to Vera Lynn on the wireless. There’s a puddle of champagne on the floor and a small pile of broken glass in the bin. She raises an eyebrow.
It’s almost too easy to slip upstairs and out onto the balcony. She lights a cigarette, watching the flame flicker in the cool breeze.
When he appears beside her, she doesn’t look round.
“Lola?” It sounds less foreign on his tongue than Dolores, and it’s a sound she could get used to.
She still doesn’t look at him. “Yes?”
His arm curls around her waist. She doesn’t swallow. “You gonna come back to the party?” He leans closer to her, lips grazing her ear, “it’s no fun without you.”
Still, she doesn’t answer.
“Come back down, Lola. I need you.”
She looks at him. “I really want to believe you,” she almost says.
It’s late, when they get back, and her Ma’s quick to wish them goodnight.
When her Ma’s gone he smiles and steps forward, brushing his lips against hers. A sigh stops in her throat and she feels her lips open. His arms wrap around her waist and when he groans into her mouth she can feel the vibration with her tongue.
She pulls back first, eyes dark and wide, watching the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows.
He nods towards his bedroom, “after you.”
“Donny- ” she starts, but he kisses her before she can finish. It’s harder, more primal, now and he grips her a little tighter. She shifts closer, settling into him.
“I was waiting.” She gasps against him, and there’s a crack when her back hits his bedroom door.
“For what?”
Her laugh is soft when she shrugs, “I don’t know.”
Her eyes are wide when she stares up at him, fingers twisted in his hair.
Oh. She mouths and he laughs.
She’s fairly sure this isn’t what her Ma had in mind when she volunteered to give a pilot the spare room.
She finds him in the garden, the next morning. When he stands, she frowns.
“I’ve gotta go back.” There’s a quiet resignation in his voice, a telegraph on the table.
“To America?”
“Yeah.”
Her hair glows gold in the sun. She nods.
“I’ll miss you, Lola.” He presses a kiss to her forehead. It’s not like him, she thinks, and this is when she realises: it’s like her.
“No,” she half-smiles, “you won’t.”
end.
small talk
“get your glad-rags on doris, we’re going to a party.” 979 words. pg-13
“Get your glad-rags on Doris, we’re going to a party.”
Dolores, not Doris, she almost sighs but stops halfway.
The parties are never much fun these days, since Billy’s plane went down, last summer. And she can no longer tell the difference between cause and effect.
It’s the story of which came first - the chicken or the egg.
Of course, she’s right and the party’s shit. They’re playing American songs on the gramophone, and smoking American cigarettes like they’re back in Boston or New York or wherever it was they said they came from. And Dolores really should hate them - this is England after all and they could at least try the beer.
But they bring her cigarettes and stockings and tell her she’s pretty. Billy always used to remind her that they weren’t Nazis and these days, that’s all that matters.
She used to know a German girl. The kind you only see in the cinemas now - long and lean with blonde hair and blue eyes. Dolores never told Billy about the German who wasn’t a Nazi.
He wouldn’t have believed her, anyway.
“You know, Doris, I think you need to lighten up a bit.” He taps his fingers on the table, an irregular beat of three, and she watches as his lips curl into a grin.
“Dolores,” she corrects him automatically; “there is a war on, Donald.”
He runs a thumb across her cheek when she turns to meet his gaze, “You, Doris, get to call me Donny.”
“Lucky me.”
It’s gone midnight, but he’s still in the drawing room. There’s a cigarette between his teeth and a pack of cards in his hands.
“Wanna play?”
“You’re up late.” Her voice is neutral.
“I’ll try again - you wanna play?”
When she nods her smile is warm.
Her hair looks longer when it’s damp, the blonde waves curling around her face. She flushes when she sees him watching her, ducking her head and smiling. “Are we going to play, then?”
He counts aloud as he deals the cards, each number twice. Their knuckles brush each other when she reaches forward to take the cards.
He wins the first game, she wins the next three.
When she wishes him goodnight she kisses him on the cheek, standing on tiptoes and resting a hand on his chest (the way she used to with Billy).
He starts calling her Dolores on a Tuesday. She stops dreaming about Billy on a Tuesday, too.
They intercept on a Friday.
He’s back from bombing the Nazis or whatever it is he does in his fighter-jet, smiling at her across the kitchen table. She’s reading the newspaper, glancing at him when she turns the page.
“You’re gonna get frown lines.” He says, and when she rolls her eyes he chuckles.
When she stands and turns to leave he reaches out to grab her arm. She pretends she doesn’t notice.
She wears a red dress to the party.
It dips low on her chest, lower than she’d like and when Donny knocks on her door she flushes, despite herself. She watches his eyes trace the neckline, and her fingers curling around the edge of her dressing table.
“Do you like it?”
His voice is low, and she can almost hear it rasp against his throat. “You’re beautiful.”
There’s a dark sparkle in his eye that tells her he means it.
The Corporal’s house is big and soon everyone’s in the ball room, hiccupping along to Vera Lynn on the wireless. There’s a puddle of champagne on the floor and a small pile of broken glass in the bin. She raises an eyebrow.
It’s almost too easy to slip upstairs and out onto the balcony. She lights a cigarette, watching the flame flicker in the cool breeze.
When he appears beside her, she doesn’t look round.
“Lola?” It sounds less foreign on his tongue than Dolores, and it’s a sound she could get used to.
She still doesn’t look at him. “Yes?”
His arm curls around her waist. She doesn’t swallow. “You gonna come back to the party?” He leans closer to her, lips grazing her ear, “it’s no fun without you.”
Still, she doesn’t answer.
“Come back down, Lola. I need you.”
She looks at him. “I really want to believe you,” she almost says.
It’s late, when they get back, and her Ma’s quick to wish them goodnight.
When her Ma’s gone he smiles and steps forward, brushing his lips against hers. A sigh stops in her throat and she feels her lips open. His arms wrap around her waist and when he groans into her mouth she can feel the vibration with her tongue.
She pulls back first, eyes dark and wide, watching the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows.
He nods towards his bedroom, “after you.”
“Donny- ” she starts, but he kisses her before she can finish. It’s harder, more primal, now and he grips her a little tighter. She shifts closer, settling into him.
“I was waiting.” She gasps against him, and there’s a crack when her back hits his bedroom door.
“For what?”
Her laugh is soft when she shrugs, “I don’t know.”
Her eyes are wide when she stares up at him, fingers twisted in his hair.
Oh. She mouths and he laughs.
She’s fairly sure this isn’t what her Ma had in mind when she volunteered to give a pilot the spare room.
She finds him in the garden, the next morning. When he stands, she frowns.
“I’ve gotta go back.” There’s a quiet resignation in his voice, a telegraph on the table.
“To America?”
“Yeah.”
Her hair glows gold in the sun. She nods.
“I’ll miss you, Lola.” He presses a kiss to her forehead. It’s not like him, she thinks, and this is when she realises: it’s like her.
“No,” she half-smiles, “you won’t.”
end.