the story they'll never get to tell
the story they'll never get to tell (dan/blair) really brief and random, written while listening to david berkeley. perhaps it'll make corleones smile wistfully. Takes place during NYU.
730 words, g
Because of matters totally un-relating to them, Blair and Dan will never get together. He stepped into the street two seconds too early; she tapped her stiletto and waited five seconds too late. And they missed a moment. No, no, that wasn’t it at all. I’ll tell you, but it was far more tragic. It was in a crowded bar and he was introducing her to people as his friend over the loud music, so her pouty lips pulled off the first smile of two weeks and she stopped making fun of his mountain-man hair so he nudged her small body playfully with his shoulder and they both ordered a beer. She made a wisecrack about the grime and the glasses and he made a comment about poets and gin and they both smiled brightly at their drinks. And he turned to look at her when she turned to look at the bartender and she turned to look at him when he turned to look at the band as they began to play again-and there it was.
Then they both turned and looked at opposites sides of the room.
I feel obliged to report what would have happened if she hadn’t suddenly been consumed with the state of the barback’s dishrag, or if he hadn’t been struck by the odd chord he’d been trained to hear since birth. As was stated before, it was entirely not their fault. But it did, and they didn’t, so I’ll only say what is.
What is.
It’s unclear who makes the suggestion that they make lovely drinking buddies, but the use of the word lovely inclines him to think it was her as they stumble from the belly of the bar into the empty streets of the banking district, where the light posts look like gas lamps and he carries her purse.
Instead of sobering them, they thread their fingers through the chain linked fence and look into the gutted World Trade Center site as Blair screams “I used to own this city”, Dan nods in agreement, “I was there, I’ve seen it!” Blair tells him to be quiet, she wasn’t done, “We will both be back!” She waits for him to agree; instead someone suggests they’re drunk.
There’s a ship ferrying cars across the Hudson, and their hands find their way towards each other, sliding into one another of their own accord. (Unaware of the deviated plan, perhaps). There’s a slow chug and a low horn and they begin to move. Walk. Unsteadily.
It’s past pub time in London but it doesn’t stop them from dreaming up Jack the Ripper cobbled streets and bridges to dangle their feet from. Contemplating a place where their melancholia has better context. “And with me you won’t not know anyone there,” he says cleverly. It’s a double negative she’s okay with, drunken logic being logic nevertheless.
It’s important to note about Dan’s walking, he has this thing about distance; he leans into her far too often. It’s almost needy but she could use a dose of that so she doesn’t speak up. It’s important to note about Blair’s hands, she grabs so tightly they fuse to their found object, but he could use a dose of that so he doesn’t mind.
“I want to…dress you,” she slurs and shakes her head. “I want to dress you so fucking bad it hurts. Come to my house! Please. I can show you what a tie is. ” He laughs and smiles and brings her knuckles to his nose. His fingers are pressed against his lips as he mumbles, “I know what a tie is, I’m going for ruggedly impoverished.”
She misses a discarded headband at the foot of a stairwell and wonders momentarily, briefly, if it misses her too.
She smiles as her eyes fall. “I used to be good at things,” she says to the ground as the only thing holding her up. So it’s understandable when the shifty lights of dawn wake him in her bed oddly overdressed in dinner jacket, three ties and a cravat. Her dress is crumpled, makeup is smudged and her brow creases as she tries to figure it out. She gives up and rolls over.
He finds her endlessly amusing in her flippant honesty, “I think I like you Blair, and it’s becoming a harder secret to keep.”
730 words, g
Because of matters totally un-relating to them, Blair and Dan will never get together. He stepped into the street two seconds too early; she tapped her stiletto and waited five seconds too late. And they missed a moment. No, no, that wasn’t it at all. I’ll tell you, but it was far more tragic. It was in a crowded bar and he was introducing her to people as his friend over the loud music, so her pouty lips pulled off the first smile of two weeks and she stopped making fun of his mountain-man hair so he nudged her small body playfully with his shoulder and they both ordered a beer. She made a wisecrack about the grime and the glasses and he made a comment about poets and gin and they both smiled brightly at their drinks. And he turned to look at her when she turned to look at the bartender and she turned to look at him when he turned to look at the band as they began to play again-and there it was.
Then they both turned and looked at opposites sides of the room.
I feel obliged to report what would have happened if she hadn’t suddenly been consumed with the state of the barback’s dishrag, or if he hadn’t been struck by the odd chord he’d been trained to hear since birth. As was stated before, it was entirely not their fault. But it did, and they didn’t, so I’ll only say what is.
What is.
It’s unclear who makes the suggestion that they make lovely drinking buddies, but the use of the word lovely inclines him to think it was her as they stumble from the belly of the bar into the empty streets of the banking district, where the light posts look like gas lamps and he carries her purse.
Instead of sobering them, they thread their fingers through the chain linked fence and look into the gutted World Trade Center site as Blair screams “I used to own this city”, Dan nods in agreement, “I was there, I’ve seen it!” Blair tells him to be quiet, she wasn’t done, “We will both be back!” She waits for him to agree; instead someone suggests they’re drunk.
There’s a ship ferrying cars across the Hudson, and their hands find their way towards each other, sliding into one another of their own accord. (Unaware of the deviated plan, perhaps). There’s a slow chug and a low horn and they begin to move. Walk. Unsteadily.
It’s past pub time in London but it doesn’t stop them from dreaming up Jack the Ripper cobbled streets and bridges to dangle their feet from. Contemplating a place where their melancholia has better context. “And with me you won’t not know anyone there,” he says cleverly. It’s a double negative she’s okay with, drunken logic being logic nevertheless.
It’s important to note about Dan’s walking, he has this thing about distance; he leans into her far too often. It’s almost needy but she could use a dose of that so she doesn’t speak up. It’s important to note about Blair’s hands, she grabs so tightly they fuse to their found object, but he could use a dose of that so he doesn’t mind.
“I want to…dress you,” she slurs and shakes her head. “I want to dress you so fucking bad it hurts. Come to my house! Please. I can show you what a tie is. ” He laughs and smiles and brings her knuckles to his nose. His fingers are pressed against his lips as he mumbles, “I know what a tie is, I’m going for ruggedly impoverished.”
She misses a discarded headband at the foot of a stairwell and wonders momentarily, briefly, if it misses her too.
She smiles as her eyes fall. “I used to be good at things,” she says to the ground as the only thing holding her up. So it’s understandable when the shifty lights of dawn wake him in her bed oddly overdressed in dinner jacket, three ties and a cravat. Her dress is crumpled, makeup is smudged and her brow creases as she tries to figure it out. She gives up and rolls over.
He finds her endlessly amusing in her flippant honesty, “I think I like you Blair, and it’s becoming a harder secret to keep.”