[ stitched with irony ] [ alice & tyler ]
It was her favourite kind of day, the hours within which she shed herself like a reptile does its skin, pulling on the suit of another for an evening.
Or rather, a vintage silk evening gown at once reminiscent of Lauren Bacall and Jessica Rabbit.
Tonight, she was not Alice Kingsley -- save for a few quick moments, as they checked the guest list. She was the seductress of film noirs, the black widow with a quick tongue, a living representation of a time long ago passed, and there was little doubt the girl had a gun strapped to her thigh or the ability to kill with a kiss. Her hair coiffed in perfectly structured 1940s curls, a high slit up the side of her thigh, Alice had perfected yet another costume. Her favoured hair and makeup artists had cooed and awed as the golden girl transitioned from beloved courtesan to a noir femme fatale before their eyes. Carter had been highly appreciative (she'd known black and whites were his favourite type of film). Yet with everything in place, it wasn't only the aesthetic that made her costume seem so real, so full -- it was the nature of the girl beneath it, who was by definition, a chameleon. A living mirror, a prism into which hopes and dreams were reflected and manifested into reality. Alice was a girl who voluntarily wandered into woods and down rabbit holes; this was only another way to lose herself.
The companion who had extended the invitation was only something that aided to her persona of the night. They did not share blood, but Alice imagined they had something far greater in common -- imagination. A shared, sharp mind that twisted around riddles and enjoyed the kind of event they were about to partake in. She adored all her siblings, but there was not a one that would have made a night of playing dress up better than he. Of course, what was games to her was work for him, and this was something that clutched to the corners of her mind as she worked a finger into the back of her heel, using it as a shoehorn. It picked at her as she touched up lipstick, pulling at her hair as she rearranged the curls. There was a curling feeling in the depths of her stomach, one that she imagined was very appropriate for the character she was portraying tonight -- she would be in close contact with a murderer, holding hands with a step towards a fatal ending. She imagined this was how Bond girls and spies felt, smoothing her hands over the curve of her hips.
Was it wrong there was a chill of macabre excitement in her marrow?
She was jittery, vibrating slightly with energy. So she returned to the glass of champagne she had poured minutes earlier, putting the rim to her lips but not yet taking a sip. Her mind was consumed with grandiose fantasies, heavily lashed eyes staring vacantly out the window as she awaited her date's arrival.