12-10-2013, 10:02 AM
Nicholas was quite the pleasant chap.
Dane laid his hands in his lap and relaxed himself in the comfort of the chair. Likewise glad to find a familiar face among strangers. The thing about faces, though - young, old, wrinkled, smooth - they were all skin, fat and flesh. Their eyes were all glass. Their teeth all polished. Their lips taut as the skin of a grape that given enough weight, always popped open. Nicholas, while a pleasant face to watch, was only another grape. Another wine to savor.
The bartender laid two cigars before them, each perched across a pure white saucer edged in gold foil. The kind that belonged beneath a teacup rather than a cigar, but for now guarded a treasure more delicious: the taunting scent of aged tobacco leaf.
Alongside each were laid pots for ash, a cutter, and a book of matches. Dane gestured for Nicholas to partake first. As it was only polite. And carried on their himself conversation while rolling the uncut cigar in his fingers. Playing with it. Feeling the weight. Absorbing the flavors as though they soaked through the silky flesh of his fingers.
Nicholas' quip brought a chuckle. And caused Dane to give an ear to the thrumming resonance of distant piano string. The pianist was a talented little strawberry. Nicholas was funny. Fame and familiarity aside, Dane liked the man. He hoped to get to know him further.
"I would say I am a tourist."
His smile considered the posh aesthetics of the parlor a moment. "This room alone is worth the trip,"
he added, elegant accent hinting at more than interior design, before settling on the spine of the pianist. Her black hair shone like the velvet of a night sky. Then returned to Nicholas'. The lingering gaze included their acquaintanceship well.
He swiped the cutter, a double guillotine-style, and snapped the tip from the cigar with one swish of blade-on-blade. A beautiful sound - similar to a kitchen knife drawn slowly over granite. It tumbled away, but Dane was unconcerned with where it fell. He propped the cigar in the corner of his mouth and drew a match. A swift stroke and the chalky sulphur exploded with angry life, flashing his face with heat. But it teased and simmered to a small flame. The timbers of the Oświęcim museum had done much the same: a roaring power fed by the screams of those within, only to die to crackling and beautiful solitude.
As he put the match to the paper, smoke curled and leaf hissed. Though aged and dead, the leaves fought the consumption. Fought him. But where nature dictated its own pace, Dane forced his own.
He seized the power, and easily overcame the battle for dominance of will. With it, he twined a simple hive of heat and energy, and the cigar succumbed to consumption of both match and flame.
He waved the match's death and dropped it on the saucer. While his puffs turned the paper into cherubic ash, he bowed his head at Nicholas, and pivoted the cigar around to take stock of the smoldering accomplishment. Perfect.
He crossed one leg over the other, and lounged, enjoying the company and his own imagination. And the cigar, of course.
The bartender replaced his glass with a fresh one. The deep port sat uncongealed in the globe of its stemware. Elegant and quiet. Dane did not partake yet. Gratification was sweetest when delayed.
He flicked a Gothic gaze upward. Nicholas was slightly out of focus until the colors faded. A disconcerting combination of heightened sight blocked by opacity. He released the power, and his eyes widened playfully, followed by a helpful smile. "Your glass is near empty."
Without breaking gaze, he pushed the weight of the whiskey's lowball glass forward a bit. Inebriation made for interesting company, after all. Dane swiftly set the man at ease with a chuckle and smile.
Dane laid his hands in his lap and relaxed himself in the comfort of the chair. Likewise glad to find a familiar face among strangers. The thing about faces, though - young, old, wrinkled, smooth - they were all skin, fat and flesh. Their eyes were all glass. Their teeth all polished. Their lips taut as the skin of a grape that given enough weight, always popped open. Nicholas, while a pleasant face to watch, was only another grape. Another wine to savor.
The bartender laid two cigars before them, each perched across a pure white saucer edged in gold foil. The kind that belonged beneath a teacup rather than a cigar, but for now guarded a treasure more delicious: the taunting scent of aged tobacco leaf.
Alongside each were laid pots for ash, a cutter, and a book of matches. Dane gestured for Nicholas to partake first. As it was only polite. And carried on their himself conversation while rolling the uncut cigar in his fingers. Playing with it. Feeling the weight. Absorbing the flavors as though they soaked through the silky flesh of his fingers.
Nicholas' quip brought a chuckle. And caused Dane to give an ear to the thrumming resonance of distant piano string. The pianist was a talented little strawberry. Nicholas was funny. Fame and familiarity aside, Dane liked the man. He hoped to get to know him further.
"I would say I am a tourist."
His smile considered the posh aesthetics of the parlor a moment. "This room alone is worth the trip,"
he added, elegant accent hinting at more than interior design, before settling on the spine of the pianist. Her black hair shone like the velvet of a night sky. Then returned to Nicholas'. The lingering gaze included their acquaintanceship well.
He swiped the cutter, a double guillotine-style, and snapped the tip from the cigar with one swish of blade-on-blade. A beautiful sound - similar to a kitchen knife drawn slowly over granite. It tumbled away, but Dane was unconcerned with where it fell. He propped the cigar in the corner of his mouth and drew a match. A swift stroke and the chalky sulphur exploded with angry life, flashing his face with heat. But it teased and simmered to a small flame. The timbers of the Oświęcim museum had done much the same: a roaring power fed by the screams of those within, only to die to crackling and beautiful solitude.
As he put the match to the paper, smoke curled and leaf hissed. Though aged and dead, the leaves fought the consumption. Fought him. But where nature dictated its own pace, Dane forced his own.
He seized the power, and easily overcame the battle for dominance of will. With it, he twined a simple hive of heat and energy, and the cigar succumbed to consumption of both match and flame.
He waved the match's death and dropped it on the saucer. While his puffs turned the paper into cherubic ash, he bowed his head at Nicholas, and pivoted the cigar around to take stock of the smoldering accomplishment. Perfect.
He crossed one leg over the other, and lounged, enjoying the company and his own imagination. And the cigar, of course.
The bartender replaced his glass with a fresh one. The deep port sat uncongealed in the globe of its stemware. Elegant and quiet. Dane did not partake yet. Gratification was sweetest when delayed.
He flicked a Gothic gaze upward. Nicholas was slightly out of focus until the colors faded. A disconcerting combination of heightened sight blocked by opacity. He released the power, and his eyes widened playfully, followed by a helpful smile. "Your glass is near empty."
Without breaking gaze, he pushed the weight of the whiskey's lowball glass forward a bit. Inebriation made for interesting company, after all. Dane swiftly set the man at ease with a chuckle and smile.