Veronica
The Architect
Another short story, but just split in two parts, for simplicity's sake.
This is also another experiment with perspective.
Once again, do not post on this thread, and please send me any criticism or questions via PM.
Set in Washington, DC. I couldn't tell you how many charity events at art circuits, exhibitions or auctions are held there, but Adams Morgan and Georgetown are real locations.
This is rated PG-13 for language.
I think I notice them because of all the beautiful things in this room, they are the most stunning. I am not the only person to notice them, of course, but they remain oblivious. They are lost in each other.
I would like to capture them in oils, or sculpture. She would be marble -- alabaster -- and he would be something darker. He should, perhaps, be carved of wood. They belong together, though. They are different -- alabaster and oak -- but they belong together. No one looking at them could deny that. I have never seen them before, never here, never anywhere else in this particular art circuit. I would have noticed them. I have a good eye for things of beauty.
They have a tremulousness about them, a shyness. I'm pretty sure they're on their first date. No. No, they are too familiar for a first date. They project a dignity that speaks of long acquaintance. I smile. I know what it is after all. They are lovers. Have been for quite some time. One of them was married, has recently been divorced. They've been together much longer than the divorce papers have been signed. This is their first time in public together as a couple. Their eyes smile at each other even as their faces remain closed.
His fingers graze the small of her back, and her face relaxes. He was the married one, I hazard to guess. He is far more comfortable with all of this than she is. She scans the room carefully, methodically, as though she's expecting someone to step out from behind one of the sculptures and condemn her. She's innocent and nervous, doesn't want to be recognized. She doesn't want to be decried as a fallen woman.
He doesn't give a flying fuck what the rest of the world thinks of him, but he wants to protect her. He wants to protect her reputation. He doesn't want to see her hurt, and he certainly doesn't want to be the cause of that hurt. She's been hurt before. Her nervousness is the only reason he doesn't press her up against the wall and kiss her like he wants to. You can see it in the electricity of his fingers against her back. He wants her. He aches for her. I think he must have had it pretty bad long before they ever got together.
He is no stranger to art -- I may never have seen him before, but the way he looks at the works spread out around him tells me he knows what fine art is. He knows what's hidden under the colors. He understands the value of beauty.
She, on the other hand, is not so secure. Her eyes widen when she sees something beautiful. Her lips pucker when she sees something she wants to touch. As entranced as she is by fine paintings and detailed sculpture, he is even more entranced by her wonder. It's a side of her he's never really seen before. He loves it. He wants to see more of it.
It was his idea to come here. She didn't want to. She probably told him it was too soon, that someone would recognize them. He cajoled her -- told her it was for charity -- told her no one who moved in their circles would be there.
He bought her the new dress she's wearing. He knew it was the kind of dress she's love, but that she'd never be able to afford. It's a Calvin Klein, I believe. Black and crisp and clean. Her pashmina alone must have cost him a small fortune, but the color is the exact hue of her eyes, and he couldn't pass it up. "They're gifts," he would have soothingly explained, as she protested the expense. "I want you to have them."
He oozes money. Old money. His family probably owns a house on the Vineyard. A big house. Filled with fine art. He's understated though. He's wearing an Armani suit and probably an Omega watch, but he's not dripping in gold jewelry. Classy. Old money. He doesn't live the life of a wealthy man, but he enjoys fine things. He has the money to enjoy fine things.
She doesn't have his kind of money, but she understands the value of a dollar. She probably lives someplace nice, like Adams Morgan -- maybe Georgetown -- in a nice apartment, filled with nice things. She can't afford anything better than nice. She probably works her ass off just to be able to afford her nice little life.
He wants to change that. He wants to give her the world. He would buy her any of the pieces of art on display tonight if only she would ask.
She won't ask, though. I can tell. And he doesn't understand that. He knows this woman, all right, but he can't comprehend her pride. He's never been able to understand that about her. She doesn't want to be a kept woman, and he aches to keep her.
This is also another experiment with perspective.
Once again, do not post on this thread, and please send me any criticism or questions via PM.
Set in Washington, DC. I couldn't tell you how many charity events at art circuits, exhibitions or auctions are held there, but Adams Morgan and Georgetown are real locations.
This is rated PG-13 for language.
XXX
They catch my eye because they are beautiful. They have an aura, a charisma. An artist is trained to see these things in the world around him.
I think I notice them because of all the beautiful things in this room, they are the most stunning. I am not the only person to notice them, of course, but they remain oblivious. They are lost in each other.
I would like to capture them in oils, or sculpture. She would be marble -- alabaster -- and he would be something darker. He should, perhaps, be carved of wood. They belong together, though. They are different -- alabaster and oak -- but they belong together. No one looking at them could deny that. I have never seen them before, never here, never anywhere else in this particular art circuit. I would have noticed them. I have a good eye for things of beauty.
They have a tremulousness about them, a shyness. I'm pretty sure they're on their first date. No. No, they are too familiar for a first date. They project a dignity that speaks of long acquaintance. I smile. I know what it is after all. They are lovers. Have been for quite some time. One of them was married, has recently been divorced. They've been together much longer than the divorce papers have been signed. This is their first time in public together as a couple. Their eyes smile at each other even as their faces remain closed.
His fingers graze the small of her back, and her face relaxes. He was the married one, I hazard to guess. He is far more comfortable with all of this than she is. She scans the room carefully, methodically, as though she's expecting someone to step out from behind one of the sculptures and condemn her. She's innocent and nervous, doesn't want to be recognized. She doesn't want to be decried as a fallen woman.
He doesn't give a flying fuck what the rest of the world thinks of him, but he wants to protect her. He wants to protect her reputation. He doesn't want to see her hurt, and he certainly doesn't want to be the cause of that hurt. She's been hurt before. Her nervousness is the only reason he doesn't press her up against the wall and kiss her like he wants to. You can see it in the electricity of his fingers against her back. He wants her. He aches for her. I think he must have had it pretty bad long before they ever got together.
He is no stranger to art -- I may never have seen him before, but the way he looks at the works spread out around him tells me he knows what fine art is. He knows what's hidden under the colors. He understands the value of beauty.
She, on the other hand, is not so secure. Her eyes widen when she sees something beautiful. Her lips pucker when she sees something she wants to touch. As entranced as she is by fine paintings and detailed sculpture, he is even more entranced by her wonder. It's a side of her he's never really seen before. He loves it. He wants to see more of it.
It was his idea to come here. She didn't want to. She probably told him it was too soon, that someone would recognize them. He cajoled her -- told her it was for charity -- told her no one who moved in their circles would be there.
He bought her the new dress she's wearing. He knew it was the kind of dress she's love, but that she'd never be able to afford. It's a Calvin Klein, I believe. Black and crisp and clean. Her pashmina alone must have cost him a small fortune, but the color is the exact hue of her eyes, and he couldn't pass it up. "They're gifts," he would have soothingly explained, as she protested the expense. "I want you to have them."
He oozes money. Old money. His family probably owns a house on the Vineyard. A big house. Filled with fine art. He's understated though. He's wearing an Armani suit and probably an Omega watch, but he's not dripping in gold jewelry. Classy. Old money. He doesn't live the life of a wealthy man, but he enjoys fine things. He has the money to enjoy fine things.
She doesn't have his kind of money, but she understands the value of a dollar. She probably lives someplace nice, like Adams Morgan -- maybe Georgetown -- in a nice apartment, filled with nice things. She can't afford anything better than nice. She probably works her ass off just to be able to afford her nice little life.
He wants to change that. He wants to give her the world. He would buy her any of the pieces of art on display tonight if only she would ask.
She won't ask, though. I can tell. And he doesn't understand that. He knows this woman, all right, but he can't comprehend her pride. He's never been able to understand that about her. She doesn't want to be a kept woman, and he aches to keep her.
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