have a gin fizz.”
Charles’s back is still turned. The set of his shoulders tells a story I have no desire to hear. I nod and pivot on my heel before I lose my nerve, pressing through the smoky room towards its long bar and row of clientele facing the mirrored wall of bottles.
In the line of jacketed backs arranged in groups of twos and threes, one lone figure stands out as though lit from within.
I notice her skin first. Pearlescent under the dim lighting, I am certain it will always shine in my memory, whenever I think back to this night. Between the sharp crop of dark hair and the form-fitting black sheath beneath, more skin is exposed than I’ve ever seen on another woman, let alone in public. Her dress is backless, with no room underneath for either corset, or any underclothes I can imagine. I feel the slow creep of a flush and look away. All around, people seem to be carefully ignoring this exotic spectacle in a way that I, for all my innate self-preservation, can not.
Fascinated, I drift on, unaware of the movement of my feet. They draw me up beside her where she balances on a stool, jutted shoulder blades gleaming as she leans in towards the bar.
I am immediately over-conscious of my own limbs. Cursing whatever recklessness has brought me here, I stand stiffly, small evening bag clasped like a protective charm on the sticky walnut. I examine the wood underneath my forearms, milky from the careless slosh of too many drinks. After allowing my breathing to settle, I raise my head.
In the mirrored display behind the bottles, a pair of eyes watches me. I can’t determine their colour in the low light, but I do see how they don’t falter or look away when met by my own. Pulse quickening, I turn my head towards their owner as slowly as I can manage.
Dark hair ends dramatically at her chin, softened by finger waves. I instantly know, without having any way of being reliably informed, this daring style is at the cutting-edge of fashion. Scarlet lips curve upwards at the edges. I find myself focusing on the way the bottom one is plumper than the top, then they split into a flash of white.
“Hello.”
The mundane word, spoken from those lips in that musical voice, has a drawn-out sound that I feel in my stomach. It makes me forget I am standing at a bar unaccompanied for the first time in my life. It gives me a feeling one might expect from driving at speed over an unseen bump in the road.
Under the frank gaze, I am drab in my taffeta and steel-rimmed glasses. My long blonde hair, of which there always seems far too much, is pinned out of the way. I become aware I’m staring, just as she is, and drop my gaze, then clear my throat.
“Good evening.”
Beside her simple “hello” , my greeting somehow manages to sound stuffy and old-fashioned, but the smile grows. A slim bare arm extends. I stare at the ethereal hand for a moment before I can remember to release my grip on my evening bag and grasp it. Her touch is cool. My mouth has somehow fallen open.
“I’m Rose—Rosina. Rosina King.”
Her eyes are the colour of gunmetal. My blood warms under their continued stare.
“Rosina King,” she repeats through the half-smile. My name sounds daring from the vivid red mouth, the accent unmistakably American. “Charmed. And what do you do with your days, Rosina King?”
“I... I’m a housewife. I’m married.”
“Of course you are.”
Her eyes flick away, over the men in the room, surmising. Evidently finding nothing to hold her attention, she looks back to me with another small smile.
“Well, aren’t you just darling?” Her hand releases mine; I blink. She lifts a glass of honey-coloured liquid set in front of her and drains it. “Would you like a drink? I was just about to ask for another. Bartender? More whisky, please—two, this time. On the rocks.”
My eyes widen. I’ve never seen a woman drink hard liquor before. I’ve never seen a woman like her before. Nobody even close. The dainty
Charles’s back is still turned. The set of his shoulders tells a story I have no desire to hear. I nod and pivot on my heel before I lose my nerve, pressing through the smoky room towards its long bar and row of clientele facing the mirrored wall of bottles.
In the line of jacketed backs arranged in groups of twos and threes, one lone figure stands out as though lit from within.
I notice her skin first. Pearlescent under the dim lighting, I am certain it will always shine in my memory, whenever I think back to this night. Between the sharp crop of dark hair and the form-fitting black sheath beneath, more skin is exposed than I’ve ever seen on another woman, let alone in public. Her dress is backless, with no room underneath for either corset, or any underclothes I can imagine. I feel the slow creep of a flush and look away. All around, people seem to be carefully ignoring this exotic spectacle in a way that I, for all my innate self-preservation, can not.
Fascinated, I drift on, unaware of the movement of my feet. They draw me up beside her where she balances on a stool, jutted shoulder blades gleaming as she leans in towards the bar.
I am immediately over-conscious of my own limbs. Cursing whatever recklessness has brought me here, I stand stiffly, small evening bag clasped like a protective charm on the sticky walnut. I examine the wood underneath my forearms, milky from the careless slosh of too many drinks. After allowing my breathing to settle, I raise my head.
In the mirrored display behind the bottles, a pair of eyes watches me. I can’t determine their colour in the low light, but I do see how they don’t falter or look away when met by my own. Pulse quickening, I turn my head towards their owner as slowly as I can manage.
Dark hair ends dramatically at her chin, softened by finger waves. I instantly know, without having any way of being reliably informed, this daring style is at the cutting-edge of fashion. Scarlet lips curve upwards at the edges. I find myself focusing on the way the bottom one is plumper than the top, then they split into a flash of white.
“Hello.”
The mundane word, spoken from those lips in that musical voice, has a drawn-out sound that I feel in my stomach. It makes me forget I am standing at a bar unaccompanied for the first time in my life. It gives me a feeling one might expect from driving at speed over an unseen bump in the road.
Under the frank gaze, I am drab in my taffeta and steel-rimmed glasses. My long blonde hair, of which there always seems far too much, is pinned out of the way. I become aware I’m staring, just as she is, and drop my gaze, then clear my throat.
“Good evening.”
Beside her simple “hello” , my greeting somehow manages to sound stuffy and old-fashioned, but the smile grows. A slim bare arm extends. I stare at the ethereal hand for a moment before I can remember to release my grip on my evening bag and grasp it. Her touch is cool. My mouth has somehow fallen open.
“I’m Rose—Rosina. Rosina King.”
Her eyes are the colour of gunmetal. My blood warms under their continued stare.
“Rosina King,” she repeats through the half-smile. My name sounds daring from the vivid red mouth, the accent unmistakably American. “Charmed. And what do you do with your days, Rosina King?”
“I... I’m a housewife. I’m married.”
“Of course you are.”
Her eyes flick away, over the men in the room, surmising. Evidently finding nothing to hold her attention, she looks back to me with another small smile.
“Well, aren’t you just darling?” Her hand releases mine; I blink. She lifts a glass of honey-coloured liquid set in front of her and drains it. “Would you like a drink? I was just about to ask for another. Bartender? More whisky, please—two, this time. On the rocks.”
My eyes widen. I’ve never seen a woman drink hard liquor before. I’ve never seen a woman like her before. Nobody even close. The dainty
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