so there she was all awkward in her
new heels, and they were making her feet
bleed anyway, and she was sipping something
that would have her moaning in the morning,
for sure, swearing never to touch the stuff
again (but of course she will).
and then he saunters in. uninvited, but hell, he
makes this party. he owns this party. and he's
just thrown on what he's wearing but it could
be a three-piece suit the way that casual,
arrogant elegance slides off him like invisible
drops of pearl. naturally, she's watching him,
but so is everyone else.
the band starts up, a soft shish of a brush hitting
a snare, and a lazy warm purr of brass. suddenly,
he's on the prowl, stalking, looking, seeking, and
just as suddenly she realises she wants to crawl
into her glass and disappear, because he's moving
towards her with a smile that does most of the
talking. the band approves, it seems, and it all
comes down to this: it don't mean a thing if it
ain't got that swing.
she is an excellent dancer, but he makes her
nervous. jazz that is molten gold becomes iron,
cool and smooth to the touch, all gilded charm and
rubicund swagger and electric hearts. of course
she melts. of course he knows she does. this is
how mistakes are made and words are said that
should be better locked behind the gates of teeth
"I'm not remotely impressed," she lies, without a sound.
"I'm not remotely interested," he lies back, a wordless grin.
The band keeps playing.
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