In a crowded room under the bleak nature of the event, Lilith stuck herself to the walls of the room. It was an easier way to see what was happening around her, eyes of hazel woodland peaking at every passerby, taking in their attire and solem appearences. While a woman of the more upper class world of New York City, she was used to events of glitz and glam; this, however, was more drib and drab. A sigh parted from her cherry painted lips, the champagne flute empty and her perfectly manicured fingers were tapping slightly at the rim of the glass. The in time beat keeping her sane from the mumbles of quiet conversations that were happening in clusters around the room.
Being perched near the mantle piece had allowed her the peace and quiet she desired, while Lilith loved ravashing conversation, she knew it was very unlikely that this would happen in here and rather than chase the need for a thrill she kept herself away, in hopes that time would fast forward and take her to the much needed after party sheâd find in her own dive bar later this evening; whiskey, although fabulos here, wasnât the same as a dirty one on a sticky bar. But the voice cut through her solace, like a sharp knife to delicate silk. Eyes snapping towards the man, whose voice she knew instantly.
Lilith mulled his question, a very intricate thought running through her mind of the meaning of a photograph â to be captured in time, a memory instilled on paper. It was a beautiful thing, how they could bring back feelings she had long forgotten.
ââItâs a weird thought really, photographs that is.ââ Lilith agreed, as she peaked a glance at Deran. ââIf you think about it, in one snap shot, we could have been apart of thousands of photographs, background that isâŚââ She hummed, furrowed brows following, lips pursing for a moment. ââSome people may have even looked at us in the back ground that moment and wondered who were were â how we lived.ââ Lilith wasnât a high up person in command, heck, she wouldnât have been surprised if he didnât even know her name, but her one redeeming quaility would be that she was an enigma within herself, a beauty of words. She was a charmer, who spoke with eleqouence that came from her time working under her old mentor, when con artistery was her daily living. But as she took a second more to look at Deran, she noted his features, his facial expression, and inwardly sighed.Â
It was a shame, the absolute awfulness of this situation for them all. A lot was going to a change, and she wasnât sure whether that was a good thing or bad thing, she wasnât sure. She was adaptable, she knew that much but sheâd be lying if she said she didnât enjoy it a little.Â
ââSorry, Deran â I didnât mean tooâŚIâll leave you be.ââ
When an apology comes from the woman before him, Deran canât help but furrow his brows. Had he done something? Had he said something he shouldnât have? In a lapse of sudden uncertainty, he rests the picture frame back on the mantle, positioning it just as it was moments ago. He thinks to speak again, to aid her apology, but doesnât, his mouth opening before closing once again. For a moment, he ponders what sheâs just said. The prospect of being in other peopleâs photographs, hidden behind crowds of people or perhaps even a bush or a family. Heâs not sure why but the thought makes him feel strange. Sad. He hates the idea of a moment that fleeting, unknown to him.Â
âThat, um,â He starts then, interrupting his sudden stream of thoughts. Perhaps it was the nature of this day, having just buried his uncle and the head of their entire operation. A huff escapes him, looking to where the service continues in the next room. He can hear people mingling, voices muffled by the wall. Thereâs a painting hung above the couch a few feet away. It looks like a war, soldiers fighting during a period that Deran couldnât place. âDonât be sorry, you didnât do anything. Not at all.â The man says then, his tone polite.Â
A chuckle escapes him then, looking to his shoes before back toward Lilith again. âI hate that thought. Um, being in other peopleâs photographs. Iâm not sure why it makes me uneasy. I donât wanna be....wondered about in that way.â Another laugh, a shrug of his shoulders paired with the sound. âHowâs the bar?â He asks then, averting away from the obvious speaking topics at hand. For now, heâd rather now go over the contents of his emotions again. At this rate, he was exhausted.Â