@albionium liked the starter call !
✞ london, july 1940
Certainly, the girls of London could see the charm in a half-dead man ( not any longer, no, thanks to the nurses with their little blue dresses and white veils ) -
They all ask him for a dance, a drink, a chat, and he, the glamour boy, in his uniform with his hair down; his accent and the bandage on his jaw is a perfect target for the girls and their romanticising of him. Mirek takes their soft white hands in his own, and dances until his injuries catch up to him.
He coughs blood outside the pub, bent over a rain-barrel and tasting bile and home-brewed whisky that the barmaid had slipped him some hour ago.
Arthur’s presence by his side is not unnoticed - smoking, surely, with that half-a-smile on his face. The street is half-dark. No blackout tonight. Mirek wipes his mouth, aware that he’s only smearing the mess further, and stands.
“You’re not going to dance? Why, I’m sure, if you put on a nice accent and look miserable, they will be all over you.”
