(no subject)
049. Club
He didn’t want her to be here.
It wasn’t an illogical thought, either, although after the amount of alcohol he’d had purple elephants would seem sensible.
There were two possibilities for her appearance: one, this place wasn’t down-in-the-dumps-forget-your-life dreary, which would completely ruin the point of his being there for the past four hours.
The second…
The second would be that she wasn’t the pure angel that he’d left.
She was dancing, freely expressing herself, moving in a way that made it so obvious why dance was physical music.
He watched her hair flying, almost in slow-motion, a halo around her head. Her skin was slick, the sweat beading up and running down into crevices that he hadn’t seen (although he had remembered oh god he had remembered) in years.
He knew, somewhere in his head, that he had a lecture tomorrow. He hated asking his assistants to teach for him, but he couldn’t pull himself away. It was mesmerizing, watching her.
His first round of questions was the obvious: why was she in town? Was she in school? Had she moved recently or a while back?
He asked for another drink.
The second round of questions was a little more prodding: Why was she in town? Was she staying long? Had she started a company? Was she working for her mother? Had she gone into fashion, after all?
He waited for half-an-hour before he ordered another, because he wasn’t stupid.
The third round began to verge into the personal. Where was she staying? Was she here with someone? Why had she left Tomoeda?
Quickly downing another shot proved to be a bad idea, and he spent the next hour or so becoming acquainted with a porcelain toilet bowl. As soon as he felt well enough to stand, he ran back to the bar. Scanning the crowds, he exhaled and relaxed-she was still there.
The bartender rolled his eyes before handing him a glass of water. Eriol pushed it back and frowned, nodding when a proper glass came back.
The crowds had begun to thin out, and he knew that he had to make a move now.
The fourth round hit him then. Why had they split? Whose fault had it been? Could he make it right?
As he finished his last drink and paid his bill, he knew that he could answer his last questions by himself.
He glanced up at the doors, watching silently as she walked out, alone. His passivity was all the response he needed.
He didn’t want her to be here.
It wasn’t an illogical thought, either, although after the amount of alcohol he’d had purple elephants would seem sensible.
There were two possibilities for her appearance: one, this place wasn’t down-in-the-dumps-forget-your-life dreary, which would completely ruin the point of his being there for the past four hours.
The second…
The second would be that she wasn’t the pure angel that he’d left.
She was dancing, freely expressing herself, moving in a way that made it so obvious why dance was physical music.
He watched her hair flying, almost in slow-motion, a halo around her head. Her skin was slick, the sweat beading up and running down into crevices that he hadn’t seen (although he had remembered oh god he had remembered) in years.
He knew, somewhere in his head, that he had a lecture tomorrow. He hated asking his assistants to teach for him, but he couldn’t pull himself away. It was mesmerizing, watching her.
His first round of questions was the obvious: why was she in town? Was she in school? Had she moved recently or a while back?
He asked for another drink.
The second round of questions was a little more prodding: Why was she in town? Was she staying long? Had she started a company? Was she working for her mother? Had she gone into fashion, after all?
He waited for half-an-hour before he ordered another, because he wasn’t stupid.
The third round began to verge into the personal. Where was she staying? Was she here with someone? Why had she left Tomoeda?
Quickly downing another shot proved to be a bad idea, and he spent the next hour or so becoming acquainted with a porcelain toilet bowl. As soon as he felt well enough to stand, he ran back to the bar. Scanning the crowds, he exhaled and relaxed-she was still there.
The bartender rolled his eyes before handing him a glass of water. Eriol pushed it back and frowned, nodding when a proper glass came back.
The crowds had begun to thin out, and he knew that he had to make a move now.
The fourth round hit him then. Why had they split? Whose fault had it been? Could he make it right?
As he finished his last drink and paid his bill, he knew that he could answer his last questions by himself.
He glanced up at the doors, watching silently as she walked out, alone. His passivity was all the response he needed.