At the dulcet tones hailing her, Isane looked up sharply, eyes widened in surprise and the nail polish cap-and-brush in a firm grip. “Goodness,” she exclaimed, before remembering her manners and managing a hesitant, “Good evening, Kisuke-san.”
His proffered greeting, though with the right degree of civility and playful conceit she had observed previously in Kisuke, had startled her. That, in itself, was nothing. She had not been expecting visitors and he did not appear to be dropping in on some grave issue—at least, not as far as she could tell from his demeanour. More mortifying were the facts that she had been caught lip-syncing, had her bare feet on display and he was staring unabashedly at them. He may claim contrition and make some effort at adhering to propriety but he was still eyeing her feet with some fascination and a slack jaw. It was disconcerting and not well-bred, gentlemanly behaviour. Then again, he had more than a touch of disreputableness about him that meant he was no gentleman. There was even talk he had called himself a pervert at times. She had supposed if someone admitted to such things, they were open about their proclivities and relatively harmless compared to the real perverts. Biting her lower lip, she realised she had neglected to bear in mind that these sorts were also incorrigible and had no shame.
Blushing at the immodest impression she must have created, she hastily recapped the bottle to prevent accidental spilling. “No, no, please don’t apologise… You didn’t know I would be off duty,” she stammered despite her discomfiture, leaving off before she could append the truth that she was pampering herself after several stressful days in a row. Such a confession would have been self-indulgent and frivolous, and she did not want anyone to suppose she was administering the Fourth under those same lines. It would be one thing to have painted toenails under her socks at work where no one could see; it was another to be caught in the act of painting said toes. She tried to cover her feet with her hands, but only succeeded with the one foot that had yet to receive a coat of colour. Its twin was left to be sheltered under the dome of fingers so as not to ruin the few toes already debaubed in the strawberry milkshake shade.
When it was evident he was not going to turn his back and retreat, even though he had caught her in dishabille as he himself had observed, she flushed deeper at the glib small talk. She did not know whether it was intended to put himself or her at ease, and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt by deeming it to be for both their sakes. “We had other demands on our time. We likely didn’t want to impose on each other while preoccupied with other matters,” she pointed out, doing her best not to shrink into herself as he approached. After all, he was a reasonable man. It was possible he would be on his way once he had satisfied his curiosity, she reminded herself, watching him examine the bottle.
His following remark made her more flustered and she found herself maintaining, “Pale pink isn’t an outrageous colour. Well, it’s more commonplace than frosted mauve.” Although the latter had not been selected for use, it was her preferred shade on the rare occasions she did her toes. There was no need for him to know she had decided to go with something a little different that day. Darting a glance at his expression that she theorised was incredulity and distracting herself with the music for a moment, she unconsciously released her hands from her feet, folded them primly over her knees—never mind that they were still hiked up—and added reflexively, “Surprises are more your area of expertise, no?”
“So they say—“ At last, he dared take a seat beside her, and, slipping his feet from his geta, likewise propped them on the low table before them. The motion was executed quite naturally, as if to suggest it was a standard of etiquette and entirely expected. In a sense, wasn’t it, to take a cue from the host?
He nodded to her partially-obsured toes. “The color, outrageous? Oh, no no— if anything, it’s outrageously complementary to your elegant toes—“ He bit back a grin as he watched to see how she might react to an outrageously complimentary remark. “One does wonder, though,” he mused, daring at last to take a seat and reaching to take the small glass bottle in hand, “how they come up with these names…” He‘d keenly spied the label earlier and now read aloud in an insinuating murmur. “‘Love in the afternoon’. Hm. Evocative…” He tilted his head in acknowledgement to the music providing ambience. “And thematic. I wasn’t aware you enjoyed opera…”
It would appropriate at this juncture, or at least expected of him, to return the bottle of pink lacquer to the table, but his hand still claimed it, thumb minutely stroking the glass. “A shade well-suited to pale skin…” He had begun thoughtfully contemplating his own bare feet, fanning out his toes. With only so much as a “May I?” and not waiting for a response, he began to uncap the bottle.
“And please, there’s no shame in enjoying a little down-time. The real shame is the energy folks waste in looking busy, when there’s so much to be gained by letting the mind and body play…” He’d managed now to uncap the bottle, and was curiously eyeing the glistening viscous rosy drop clinging to the end of the brush.
titsay
prguitarman
gracieabrams
baratheonpilled
turnnoffyourmind
theartofmadeline
