impasto
@wvlfwife
drinking the night away would’ve worked if his neighbours weren’t so insistent on his appearance. they hardly knew each other, and he could hardly call them neighbours if they lived in opposite ends of long island. for god’s sake, they sent him the invitation by sailing at the harbour by his home, and luring him with the promise of meeting other young people and making connections: neither particularly appealed to the author, but he was convinced that they were simply doing this out of courtesy, and not because they knew that he was the writer many others claimed to have seen.
zhang yixing did not fancy himself an enigma. he simply had no patience for the vain gatherings that often disturbed him in streets and in homes and just about anywhere he found himself wandering; and, at the moment, allowing the valet to take his car ( he did not own a boat, as some others may think; where would he keep it? ), he had half a mind to ask for his keys back so he could drive back home.
but even he found it rude to simply take off right when he arrived, especially when he arrived late. he entered through the doors of known grandeur, and gravitated, naturally, to the server with the champagne, as if he hadn’t spent all day purging himself of the heavy scent of his own alcohol. he really would have stayed for another minute or two, minding his own business, until he turned and found himself very nearly spilling his own drink on a familiar lady’s front – certainly not one borne in the americas, no; perhaps somewhere farther east, no matter how much her clothing betrayed her heritage.
“careful,” he warned, as if he had any right to, in a home that wasn’t her own. “i almost ruined your dress. not quite used to doing that with a drink.”