i could be part of your world ā² therese
She learns this the hard way: the walls of this world of masks are made of touch.
Seri hears fingers rather than sees them; they resonate in the folds of her sleeves, skitter smoothly over the slopes of her forearms - their tips and the sweep of rosin and brass pace along the shells of her eardrums in a herd-like rustle, again and again. For the umpteenth time, the orchestra sets aside their silence like a bereft lover to take up a far more vivacious mistress, such that Seri feels the shift of all their fingers at the same time she rolls her own long shoulders, a vibrato plus one.
The Awashima woman's red-lipped exhale lingers in the warmth of the ballroom for no more than a golden moment, kept safe from curiosity by that first note of quivering waltz.Ā Ever since she'd arrived, her body hadn't ceased its twitching. Involuntary unsettlings'd murmured across her skin every time she'd thought they'd finally gone to bed, leaving lights on in the house of her heart like spots of heat right where her neckline dove - right where she continually brushed, restless, and where the greatest weight she felt sat.
In truth, Seri should have left already - should have let the late indigo wash over her and swallow her whole, here and along the street, on the steps all the way to her single apartment, where proper black could kiss her eyelids closed with murmurs of city slumber. Instead, lingering close to the wall, unwilling to slink to a chair, the Awashima woman has the crispness of midnight hugging her stomach: blue, the color everyone's always told her she's looked best in - even if it's meant the most coming from only a few people in particular. She's been told it's fortunate she looks so good in white and silver, too, pale hair and rich light eyes only highlighted by the utilitarian elegance of her work attire; the same kinds of comments have emerged, Seri holding herself the same in both a gown and her uniform, in spite of her mask. Her height, fitted pumps a surprisingly delicate augmentation, and her bearing give her away even if the simplicity of her mask, compared to the brilliance of her gleaming hair ornament, doesn't give yet another obvious hint.
Steady cerulean irises trace partners drifting into formation on the floor (for what must be nigh on the last song of them all), saying with a blink and an unfurling of Seri's loosely bound arms that it's true she should have brought a shawl to ward off the shiver of her skin - but, perhaps, the fervor of the room is finally catching up with her, with a turn of her long bare neck and a twitch of her tawny brow.
(There.)
The hall's citrine filigree curves over, curves around, follows the trail of her eyes where her fingertips twitch and at last lie still along the crooks of her elbows. As if the room and the world have simultaneously curled over on themselves, becoming small, small, Seri blinks and a dark head of hair in the distance seems, suddenly, so close she could reach out to lace a curl about her finger - though, of course, Seri knows better than to presume any kind of contact. Though, of course, Seri works hard to be deliberate, aware, with her hands.
Knowing a person by their gait - knowing the roll of their hips and pace of their feet - is Seri's job, but rarely is she as uncertain about it as tonight. As now, when her chin tips forward and her blinks stutter just a little, much like her normal fluid steps.
In fact, the only thing that isn't quite affected is the smile that comes on: a tide, a vermilion blooming, as blue eyes meet blue and Seri dips her frame in formal greeting.
"Do you lack a partner, madame?"
(Yes, this color suits Seri indeed.)
