with passions and with prudences

[thisiswhen]

Ethan should, according to Maria, be preparing or prepared for the dance, which tonight is apparently all anyone is doing.

Evidently he disagrees, which would be why he's in his room, shirt undone and a rolled cigarette (half-smoked and pinched out) behind his ear while he attempts to make the music he can imagine in his head even remotely work

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[integralpieces]

Anyone parked outside, for sure. Ida, dressed head to toe in a perfectly tailored pinstripe suit, black and white fedora, and very snazzy shoes looks up as she closes the door to the Rolls.

"ETHAN!"

[thisiswhen]

"...MOTHER OF GOD," Ethan veritably yowls it because his head slammed up against the bottom of his open window when she shouted his name. He disappears backwards, slamming the window shut to muffle the continuous stream of cursing -- which, in fact, continues until he comes to open the door, barefoot and not having bothered to do any of his buttons up.

Now he's cranky with a headache. He rubs the back of his head and scowls at her. "Why do you look like something out of a gentleman's catalogue?"

...it's okay, Ida, he already hurt himself.

[integralpieces]

He can call her mother of God if he likes, she's fine with that. Ida watches with one perfectly groomed raised eyebrow, as if she can see through walls (and she's imagining him swearing a stumbling all the way down like a cartoon character).

"Because I look great," she says, putting her hands on her hips. "Put a shirt on and get in the car."

[thisiswhen]

It says something -- though Ethan doesn't want to know what -- that he starts buttoning his shirt almost before she's finished her sentence. "You look like the lipstick mafia," he says, as if to off-set the fact he's obeying her thus far. "Why am I getting in the car, exactly? I'm in the middle of something here."