Whispers

 
 

The Date

Soft strands of dark hair glide across her face, white falling about the edges, blending across the porcelain skin.

His grip tightens on the frame of the door. He stands at the edge of the room, lingering in the doorway, poised to go in. He is frozen by the sight of her dancing.

Her head tilts back. Her cheeks are faintly flushed as she smiles and her soft laugh tinkles upward toward the man she dances with, but her eyes remain dull, like emerald stones coated in dust.

He studies the sweep of her gown as it falls away in a trail of green chiffon, leaving her creamy shoulders bare. He wants to reach and touch her, touch the line of her collar bone, feel the silk of her skin. Opera gloves ride up her arms, covering her, hiding her.

His eyes narrow in pain. He watches her dance with another man, who knows the name, it hardly matters. His grip tightens on the frame of the door.

He is frozen by the sight of her dancing.

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She does not catch the words as she excuses herself from his arms and swishes into the ladies dressing room. He said something to her, murmured compliments all the night. What does it matter?

Green and softness, the exposure of skin, all of it melds into lost beauty in the mirror as she catches a sob and stares at her impossibly wide emerald eyes, glittering with tears she is trying desperately not to shed.

She thought it was over. She thought she could walk away. Stop feeling.

He was there.

The first glimpse of red, burning against the darkness of his eyes, and she knew that she had lost. He was standing in the doorway, eyes on her, only for her, smoldering with the intensity that had only ever come from him.

She pushes back the brown hair, the white hair, the hair she left loose tonight as he had always loved it. Falling into darkness, drowning in the black and red, the burning, the ache, the desire. Can she never walk away?

She cleans herself up, washing away the traces of tears and reapplying the blurred makeup. Her eyes are dull with a sheen of the further tears she will not shed.

Green and softness, a beautiful dress, the exposure of skin, the hair, wasn't it all for him? It melds into lost beauty in the mirror.

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He cannot pretend he is unaffected as she reemerges from the dressing room, a soft, sweet smile on her face. She tilts her head back and laughs softly as another man takes her arm and leads her to the side of the room, concern flitting across his features.

He cannot pretend and so he walks away.

And in his mind, soft strands of dark hair glide across her face, white falling about the edges, blending across the porcelain skin.
 


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