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impasto

wvlfwife:

there was no reason for her to skip a night of festivities simply because she already had far too much to drink, for a dress as lovely as the one she was wearing warranted an audience bigger than the small group of people in her close friend colette’s garden party. truthfully, no matter how she loved her sweet little friend, one should not simply succumb to socialization in one’s circle, despite how comfortable it might be.

besides, colette merely knew how to supply her guest with alcohol but did not know how to be an entertaining host. thankfully it did not rub off on roseanne.

“i supposed i could just get a new one, could i not?” a teasing lilt, a pretty little smile. the vaguely familiar stranger held the sort of gaze she had always appreciated, the attractive kind, one she would not mind being plagued with.

he looked her over once, and tried to resist the temptation of doing it again. it would be an outright shame indeed if he’d ruined the damned thing; she was an absolute vision in it, and he had an inkling that any of the younger bachelors covering themselves with the smoke of rolled tobacco wanted to experience more than just a garden party. “of course you could, sweetling, but there’s no need to waste your parents’ money on something so trivial.” the nickname travels from his mouth with swift dull-mindedness; he swallows his champagne and hopes to never repeat it again.

she was spoiled. most everyone here was, and he held no illusions of his own privilege. the only difference between him and them was that he tried to make it on his own, with both hands and a brain to go with it; one that begged for him, it seemed, for intoxication, so he drank a little more before speaking again. “is the host a friend of yours? i must apologise for being so late,” and, despite his earlier judgement, he couldn’t help but look at her again, at her face, at how beautiful she looked despite the undeniable tinge of red that may or may not be from her own liveliness. “though i have no clue how late i truly am. has the party been going for long?”

#impasto :#wvlfwife #c:yx #au:1920s

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.”