♥ you muse suprises my muse with a kiss
Gabbana doesn’t dance (apart from ballet and ballroom, but who’s asking?). Bora knows this for a fact, and still talks her into it – and, surprisingly enough, the awkward socialite finds that she looks good in less clothes just as fabulous as she appears clad in expensive coats and warm jackets. Bora has always had a way with words, although Gabbana doesn’t know what it is, and she always forgets to ask the older woman to teach the designer her ways. It would certainly make things easier for the younger half of the pair. But, as it is now, she’s one of the masses seduced by the words of a beautiful woman, and she cannot refuse. She has never been able to.
Surprisingly enough, although she’s not a dancer, and burlesque has never been her thing, she manages to do a good job. Men and women alike appear to be entranced by the flawless skin, radiant even in dim lighting, stretched over small amounts of muscle and a toned midsection. There is something about her quaint form that grants the audience the illusion that she is a princess groomed to be a queen, although her limbs quiver minutely on stage. She knows, because Bora has apparently filmed the whole bloody thing. It takes little persuasion to have Gabbana sit down at the bar after the performance, because she can at least stomach her own mediocre presentation with veins swimming in alcohol.
“That was terrible,” she mumbles behind a glass of golden poison. She meant to say: I looked terrible, or something along those lines. But she can never admit to that just as she can’t ask if this is what Dolce sees: the picture of innocence. Painted lips, and eyes big enough to get lost in but never become unsalvageable from, and a slight form with its soft planes and tantalising, yet not fully ripe, curves.
“That was fine,” Bora reassures her anyway, having taken her momentary, half-inebriated silence as a sign that she had been, once again, brooding. The device is tucked safely away from Gabbana’s reach because she knows the girl will attempt to erase any evidence of the night. “You did well for a replacement dancer.”
“You couldn’t do it yourself?” The question was pointed, and took away all fantastical ideas about faux fragility. “You know I’m not a good dancer, and I don’t dance. I’m uncoordinated, and clumsy, and at one point in time I fell on my ass trying to get a jar of peanut butter while standing on a chair. Don’t ask how.” The words are unstoppable now – she rarely talks about herself like this, and it’s…liberating. Weird, but liberating. Sometimes, it’s better to accept that there are other things wrong with her, and place the blame on them. “I can’t even ride a bike, and it’s a miracle that I can drive a car, and –,”
Surprising as the nature of her rant had been, it’s immediately cut short by soft tiers pressing against her own. The kiss lasts longer than it should, and takes the taste of tequila away momentarily by something significantly sweeter.
“You did fine,” Bora repeats, this time getting off the bar stool, and taking the bewildered, half-drunk Gabbana by the hand. It won’t do to have her stay here when Bora still has to oversee the closing, and the girl has overstayed her already-extended welcome anyway. The bartender laughs, and Gabbana’s too taken aback by the fact that Bora kissed her to give the offending man the glorious image of her middle finger raised in the air.
