Dancing in the Rain

[RedneckLoves]

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Elva twirled around in a graceful circle, her loose dirty white dress flowing around her. In her mind she heard an orchestra reaching the crescendoing climax of a magnificent piece of music. She spun and jumped and landed on a graceful toe, then twirled some more and jumped again. A giggle escaped her parted lips, but she didn't stop her intricate dance.

The ballroom was deserted, but she was having fun by herself. When the dances were held here it was too full of people, all jostling into each other and breathing the same air. Unhealthy is what it was. And so much drama. Interesting when she was in the mood for a little anit-matchmaker or pin the crime on the lame-o, but not when she really wanted to dance.

Myrna's thin arms swung up in a graceful arc and then down again as she paused in her prancing. Eyes closed, she was totally immersed in her own little world. The music played dramatically in her head and she imagined a story to go along with it. This one was about a man who inadvertently caused the death of his true love and child. She imagined that she was dancing in the rain, cold drops splattering on her face and soaking her dress, skin burning warm against the chill.

@Toska

 

[Constantine]

The playwright paused, quill perched above befeathered wakes, and with a sorrowful nod, dropped his charade. Each note, disingenuous and hummed to a meticulous beat, sonorous if only in the eye of its beholder, broke a pattered, slow drum of palms. Applause that tore through the deserted room, echoed in the oak lattices which captured and housed choruses forgotten but for the week's end. Applause that resonated from a single onlooker, lost amidst imaginary crowds. His eyes tipped their hats, plied the slender figure beyond with compliments bathed in candor. Aloft of the already distinct facade.

The man cracked fantasy's yolk with his presence. Swathed in velvet, a maroon jacket which hugged his waist and signed promissory notes as he neared, he cut a lonesome figure. All the more for his crowd; it drew melancholy to his grin, the flash of lips that parsed his placid cheeks. Sporting an artificial eye, its glister just a shade off from the other, he wore an easy smile. Characteristic of a smooth play, wading through mass after mass in ordinance with normalcy; navigation through social strata, and he wore it well. Bore its grace with all the speckled skin of a chameleon.

Emotion transmogrified to music behind his lips; a silent song, sung, heard through a glimpse of that which the woman saw. By that which she heard, conjured from the depths of her chest, beat at her lungs for a breathy escape into the realm of steps; of feet moving and lingering in time, scantly touching the floor but to slip a kiss onto its breadth. Enough to lift off once more, never to ground.

She was nothing if not a bird free of her cage.

It drew the man's smile, and Constantine languished with it for a time. Savored the sights for their worth, weighed merit on a scale behind a single virgin eye, and nodded along in turn, but never in tune. For he stepped to a song of his own creation, the melody wrought forth by his soul sung separate notes. And perhaps they would never match again.

"Quite the show, miss," he said to the click of his silvered heels. "I'm both grateful for getting a chance to see it, and beating myself over being here to ruin it." His smile spoke otherwise, a second face clicking its tongue to the beat of his shoes. Mischief soaked cold, its cinders long crumbled out of form, but there was honesty in his tone.

 

[Ailsa Elva Myrna]

The sharp sound of clicking heels disturbed the remorseful song in her mind. Myrna's eyes opened, long lashes revealing bright green eyes. She didn't pause in her dancing, though, instead gracefully making her way toward the stranger who had entered the ballroom. A spin set her dress to fanning out and a final leap brought her close to him.

Ailsa had heard his words and was amused that he'd chosen to interrupt her. He could have just as easily watched from afar or walked away. Why had he approached her instead? Part of her was angry at the interruption of her personal time to dance, but mostly she was curious about the man.

Voice sweet and seductive, Elva spoke as she trailed a hand across the stranger's chest and began to circle him playfully. "Some think a dance is better with two."

 

[Constantine]

Fingers put to ivory; on velvet, on lapels, running the length of his coat, his chest. Those fingers traced him in a gentle arc, rapped to the sound of a silence broken by demurring speech. Syllable after syllable, and they left lips to dance the way her hips promised, in the manner of quiet steps and haunting rhythms. The kind that spoke more the fewer words traversed the gap between their throats.

Wordless, but never without sound, Constantine drew a palm over the back of her hand. Entwined fingers as he stepped back with a low, long nod. This dance of sounds, of clacking heels and hellish woes where music tugged on invisible strings and made marionettes of the slow... it set fire to his feet. From the sway of a palm, cresting wrist and lingering on fingertips curling out to the starting step, to the wry twist in his eyes. A spry smile, a grin so characteristic and worn that it bespoke his mischief, teased of sin; for sin was laden on each breath, the heavy drawl of liquor, of rustic brandy so bittersweet it mellowed off the exhale.

He danced to such music as any cared to play. One step at a time, leisure housed in the hollows of his chest where beats measured the thrumming at his wrists. This was his melody, that which hummed from a gravelly throat. Which echoed in the clack of silver heels and rustle of fabric subdued in his wake. Two pairs of feet. Of hands and wrists and hearts drumming along in distinction. Aloft from each other; so he pulled her close.

Stretched out an arm, sought the hollow of her arch, the small of her back. Stole her as near to chest as propriety allotted. Broke the silent vow he waged to match the tenor of her beat.

Mimicry only went so far, but in this play, improvisation spread forth his wings.

 

[Ailsa Elva Myrna]

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The strange man nodded - almost bowed - to her, before setting off in his own dance. Fingers intertwined, feet dancing around each other, his shoes clacking methodically on the hard wood floor. His lips turned up in a mischievous smile and she smelled bourbon on his breath. Elva wondered if the man was a drunk or simply enjoyed a drink now and again. Drunks, she couldn't abide. Weakness is what it was.

The thought had little time to register in her mind, as the man swept her up in an exhilarating dance. She followed his lead with all the grace of his own steps and found that she was quite enjoying the moment. Something of a rarity for the eccentric Sister. She spent much time studying those around her, only to feign silly ignorance around most people. Right here and now was a rare moment of spontaneity and enjoyment with a man totally strange to her. She didn't even know his name, and yet found that it mattered little just now.

He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close, and her lips parted in a glittering grin. She looked up into his eyes and couldn't help but wonder at her own unguarded emotions. Many found her to be emotional, but most often those emotions others witnessed were carefully calculated before hand. Such a strange man to elicit such strange actions from her.

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