[ The room is a soft hum of mellow gold, like diamonds in the eyes of the pierglass, bead by bead captured in a tumble and folding of lights. They’re all alight here— light bouncing against the curve of their smiles, starlight trapped in dark and clear irises alike; all patrons of light with gold in their pockets.
She purses her lips extra tight, thinking it’ll lend more to her features, lead more eyes to trail over cheeks pressed with soft petals of rouge. She’s never been in place like this before: finery, lights, spirits, and no livery in sight. All beyond her means, but everything that’s hers tonight. He had met her at the cabaret, presented her with the invitation, and bought her the right clothes. ]"Cher, you-"
"No, no. You musn’t call me that. I don’t like it. Call me your gal. Call me a doll. Call me as you would an American girl."
"Would you feel more adored if I called you Edie?"
"Would you?"
[ There’s the clinking of glasses, fluted and filled to the brim with spirits tinted a pale green. Amory gazes upon her, a look more bemused than adoring with a smirk drawn on his features. Blond haired spun and coiled with curl paper, dark red against her lips, a button nose--- beautiful his woman was, but as an American would say: A dime a dozen.
He likes the control though. He likes her staring at him, looking to him as if he was some great star in the sky. He likes knowing that she’ll bend and break for him, or more specifically, those jangle of coins in his pocket.
And boy, could she kick. ]
( non, je ne regrette rien. )
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