A softness in her demeanour; lethargic, long muscles and buttery bones create an almost slothlike appearance. Edging along the sides of walls silently, observing everyone else in the room. Playing cards, chatting, drinking sherry from small crystal glasses that clink against their teeth.
She walks along, casually draping her gloved fingers against the wall, studying the patterns of the damp-ridden wallpaper. The shapes unite and break in intervals and she is mesmerised by them and the deep red arrangements that seem to hover in the air.
She looks at him, once, twice but never thrice. He only catches the back of her neck; unruly dark hair coiled up into soft curls, continuing all the way down and disappearing inside her dress. For a brief moment he imagines it released and wavy against the whiteness of a pillow on a bed, like a pool of blood. This makes him shiver in his chair, and he grasps his glass that bit harder and spills the sticky liquid onto his fingers, cursing. It seeps onto the cloth that covers the table and he thinks how it will leave an amber imprint there, forever marking the things he felt that night.
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