Jan 4, 2020
@gideonstjames
Matilda knew her husband had arrived when the scent of desperation surging through the party mingled with that of cognac and potent---nearly offensive---cologne. They’d agreed to arrive separately, their purposes diametrically opposed: hers to go undetected, a tacit and yet powerful force beneath the current, and his to remain, at all costs, seen and heard. Gaudy. A hand wafts across Gideon’s lower spine to alert him of her presence, a crooked smile finding the shell of his ear, lips leaving a stain in chaste greeting. Her olive eyes lower to the drink in his hand, clinking with ice cubes.
“I assume I’m driving?”