Reva Malone

With that simple logic, she slid off the sofa, scarlet silk trailing behind, bare feet quietly taking her the few feet to where the kitchen lay. The telltale sounds of cabinet doors opening and closing, glasses clinking, said that she was after the promised drink. Being a law-abiding American citizen, she kept a secret stash of bootlegged booze on hand, her personal tastes trending to gin which, she assumed, would suit her British guest just fine.

As she set about assembling their drinks, she continued, “I might have been annoyed at first with you, English, but after our talk, I don’t know, I just got the impression that you’re basically a decent guy. And like I said, it would have come around sooner or later and if there was going to be a problem, I guess I would rather know straight away, you know?”

Drink in each hand, she returned to the front room, pausing at Leon’s side to hand over his. “Didn’t want to get too attached to you without knowing.” Her smile was all innocent flirtatious invitation. “Let me know if that’s too strong; I learned to bartend at the Tiger.”

"It does," he concluded, "It does the women and men, employers and friends alike. Parents, superiors, country, likely even King, though the same could almost certainly be said for him and my own wrath." He exhaled a soft huff of a laugh, continuing. "In England, I’d say we’re a pretty reserved group of people, generally very orderly; you know, we’re well-practiced in being subservient to royalty. Well, for whatever reason something in my parents did not seem to transfer over to me, and so I find that I’m a pretty confrontational person and people tend to not like that. Even over here, I don’t think they do… but, being that it’s not only a large part of my personality but also my job, there’s not much I care to change about it. Which is also not to say that it bothers me - it really doesn’t. Broadly speaking, I couldn’t care less if some chum were to dislike me because I put him on the spot. Naturally I care about your opinions since we’re…" Lifting a finger, Leon wagged it toward Reva’s doorway to indicate their close proximity. In that break of speech, he also took it upon himself to polish off the remnants of his drink.

She listened carefully to all the Brit had to say, reciprocating the silent show of friendship he had so recently bestowed upon her. With nearly any other man the display would have been superficial, her mind wandering as she listened for key words to respond shallowly to with the right sympathetic noises. But here, now, with him, her interest was genuine.

A warm smile curled the corners of her lips when Leon confessed to valuing her opinion; her inner workings were usually not so highly regarded.

"You're fine," she said simply, dispelling his circular conversational concern. Then, after a moment's consideration, "People are funny. They don't seem to mind putting their nose in the business of other people, but the minute you do it to them it's wrong and nosey and you're a no good busybody. For whatever it's worth, and depending on who you ask it might not be much, I wouldn't change a thing about you. Let all the others be put off; they obviously don't know a good thing when they see it." Her statements were matter-of-fact in their earnest simplicity.

"Look, English, I know that was a hell of a thing to throw out there, but it would have come out sooner or later and why not sooner? I like you and I trust you. I trusted that you wouldn’t start quoting scripture or call me a whore or, I don’t know, leave in disgust." She looked at him earnestly, honestly. There was no act here, no beguiling bubbly flirtation.

"And I can see you trying to do the math … I was fourteen when I started, sixteen when that Christmas party happened. So, I don’t know, I guess I miss what could have been more than anything? My folks were gone, they had died earlier that year, and this guy, a friend of the family, said he would take care of me and I was dumb enough to believe him." Reva shrugged here, as if falling victim to an older predator were just another folly of youth.

"I wound up at the Tiger. The girls there became like sisters to me, management treated us pretty well, and for the most part the guys were alright; most of ‘em just wanted a pretty girl to make them feel special, important, for a little bit. It was good money, too, which didn’t hurt …

"I suppose it would have been better if my folks were still around and I had stayed at home and kept at the voice and dance lessons, maybe got my face on a local ad campaign before hitting the big time!" She laughed. "But who knows? Maybe if that had happened I would be married with a kid by now instead of dancing with the ‘Dolls and living here and talking to you. And I can tell you this, English, I’d much rather be here with you."

Though it would have been easy for her last remark to be a come-on, considering the hour and her state of non-dress, it instead carried the warmth of friendly affection.

As he should have been, the reporter was a thorough listener and let the woman speak without interruption. The heaviness of the conversation was not his burden to bear, and thus he took in what was offered while trying to retain a sense of delicacy in further address.

With that simple logic, she slid off the sofa, scarlet silk trailing behind, bare feet quietly taking her the few feet to where the kitchen lay. The telltale sounds of cabinet doors opening and closing, glasses clinking, said that she was after the promised drink. Being a law-abiding American citizen, she kept a secret stash of bootlegged booze on hand, her personal tastes trending to gin which, she assumed, would suit her British guest just fine.

As she set about assembling their drinks, she continued, "I might have been annoyed at first with you, English, but after our talk, I don't know, I just got the impression that you're basically a decent guy. And like I said, it would have come around sooner or later and if there was going to be a problem, I guess I would rather know straight away, you know?"

Drink in each hand, she returned to the front room, pausing at Leon's side to hand over his. "Didn't want to get too attached to you without knowing." Her smile was all innocent flirtatious invitation. "Let me know if that's too strong; I learned to bartend at the Tiger."

A glance was spared for the boys beginning their work as she walked to a back row of shelves, eyes sliding from mischief-makers to displayed assorted goods. A soft "Ahh!" escaped parted, painted lips as she spotted what she had come into the store for. Flat-footed, she couldn't reach the desired tin. Standing on tip-toes didn't help, either.

Leon’s faux-suspicion was met with a nigh vaudevillian display of offended sensibilities. “I am shocked that you would even suggest such a thing …!” Reva held a hand, dramatically splayed, to one silk-covered breast. “But now that you mention it, I might have a tale or two up my sleeve.” The hand was dropped, as was the act, disappearing with a sly smile and sideways glance. The faith she held in swapping stories with the well-traveled reporter was mostly bravado; Reva viewed her life’s experiences as mundane simply because they had happened to her and well within Montford’s meager city limits. She sipped slowly at her cooling coffee, sorting through memories for the perfect story to relate. Landing on one that was a favorite, if not perfect, she set her cup down, freeing her hands for its telling.

In fact, the reporter found himself a little tongue-tied. Not for faulting her for the sex, Leon was far from being a prude to deny women the same pleasure as men, but he couldn’t quite shake the implication of desperation, of tribulation that was coupled with the misfortune of having to sell one’s body for money. Especially coming from a woman who looked a few years short of his age, at best. Even his open mind couldn’t quite rationalize it.

"Look, English, I know that was a hell of a thing to throw out there, but it would have come out sooner or later and why not sooner? I like you and I trust you. I trusted that you wouldn't start quoting scripture or call me a whore or, I don't know, leave in disgust." She looked at him earnestly, honestly. There was no act here, no beguiling bubbly flirtation.

"And I can see you trying to do the math ... I was fourteen when I started, sixteen when that Christmas party happened. So, I don't know, I guess I miss what could have been more than anything? My folks were gone, they had died earlier that year, and this guy, a friend of the family, said he would take care of me and I was dumb enough to believe him." Reva shrugged here, as if falling victim to an older predator were just another folly of youth.

"I wound up at the Tiger. The girls there became like sisters to me, management treated us pretty well, and for the most part the guys were alright; most of 'em just wanted a pretty girl to make them feel special, important, for a little bit. It was good money, too, which didn't hurt ...

"I suppose it would have been better if my folks were still around and I had stayed at home and kept at the voice and dance lessons, maybe got my face on a local ad campaign before hitting the big time!" She laughed. "But who knows? Maybe if that had happened I would be married with a kid by now instead of dancing with the 'Dolls and living here and talking to you. And I can tell you this, English, I'd much rather be here with you."

Though it would have been easy for her last remark to be a come-on, considering the hour and her state of non-dress, it instead carried the warmth of friendly affection.

"Anyway, the next time you come see me perform, and there better be a next time!, I want you to wear something even wilder! I want to spot you straightaway from the stage!"

And like that, the girl’s sparkle returned, chasing away the gloom that had, for a moment, darkened her brow. Leon’s tale of European debauchery put all thought of small-minded judging from her mind, replacing it with vivid images of posh flats and carefully manicured lawns and free-spirited beauties of both sexes in diaphanous togas.

A delighted peal of laughter greeted the Brit’s description of his own painted costume, followed by a breathy, “I’m sure you both were beautiful …” Reva felt herself going green with envy; not a hateful, spiteful jealousy, but a softer, more wistful sort. She desperately wished she could fall in with the sorts who traveled and whiled away days in lavish parties; maybe find herself in the center of a torrid love affair or the winsome muse for a tortured artist. They were the romantic dreams of a young girl who had never been far from home, but hearing Leon describe his misadventures was akin to hearing a firsthand tale of heaven, of gaining a glimpse of a world that had only been hinted at in film and story. She was utterly and completely enthralled.

"It all sounds so wonderful! Oh, I’m sure there’s a terrible side to it all, but it honestly does sound like some sort of wild dream! You’re so lucky to have experienced that …"

Turning to the cup coffee set out for him, steam steadily fading from its surface mirroring the pastels of their surroundings, Leon leaned forward to fix it to his tolerance which was mostly diluted with cream and sugar. The more he partook of the turbid concoction, the more he disliked it; a wretched mix of dirt and acid without any of the subtlety of earth or preciously sundried leaves from which were leeched a rich, delicate flavor. Though it was far from Reva’s fault, her neighbor couldn’t help the wrinkle of nose that accompanied his initial sips.

"The Paris parties are always a bit treacherous," he then admitted, "London-ways we’re a bit more subdued, but we do have our own brash collection of Bright Young Things." Shoulders lifting in a shrug as if to acknowledge the differences of the two special sorts, the man then inclined his chin to her. He looked down his sharp nose in a farce of suspicion.

Leon’s faux-suspicion was met with a nigh vaudevillian display of offended sensibilities. “I am shocked that you would even suggest such a thing …!” Reva held a hand, dramatically splayed, to one silk-covered breast. “But now that you mention it, I might have a tale or two up my sleeve.” The hand was dropped, as was the act, disappearing with a sly smile and sideways glance. The faith she held in swapping stories with the well-traveled reporter was mostly bravado; Reva viewed her life’s experiences as mundane simply because they had happened to her and well within Montford’s meager city limits. She sipped slowly at her cooling coffee, sorting through memories for the perfect story to relate. Landing on one that was a favorite, if not perfect, she set her cup down, freeing her hands for its telling.

A kettle of water was put on the stove to boil - “I’m out of tea, I hope coffee is ok!” - and a variety of sweets and fruits were gathered and arranged on a prettily painted serving tray, the offering brought out to be placed on the coffee table for the pair’s casual perusal.

Leon’s secondary comment would have brought a flush of color to the girl’s cheeks if she were the type to fluster at masculine flirtations. “Oh, I’m sure you could if you looked long and hard enough …” She winked, the gesture saucy. “I’ll be two shakes; I really should put something on. What would the neighbors say?” A faux scandalized statement as the lone neighbor to say anything was sitting in her front room.

On that teasing note, she disappeared to her bedroom, leaving Leon to continue his musical sorting. Unsurprisingly, the girl’s musical taste trended towards popular dance records, though a few eccentric gems could be found, too. A singular jazz album stood out not only for its label, which marked it as a race record, but also for the inscription in one corner of the cover: For My Angel, Love Conrad. No doubt a memento from a former flame.

Reva reappeared as the kettle whistled its task completion, sliding silently sideways to quiet the racket. Mugs, sugar and creamer were balanced on a plate-come-tray, the display much less impressive than Leon’s tea service a week before. This was set beside the platter proper and, back to stay, Reva lounged on the sofa. She had divested herself of sparkling gems and jacket, donning now a scarlet kimono with an intricate design picked out in golden thread. Whether she wore something or nothing beneath it was almost impossible to tell, though the front slit formed by overlapping fabric halves offered tantalizing glimpses of bare thigh, knee, calf, ankle.

"Anyway, the next time you come see me perform, and there better be a next time!, I want you to wear something even wilder! I want to spot you straightaway from the stage!"

And like that, the girl's sparkle returned, chasing away the gloom that had, for a moment, darkened her brow. Leon's tale of European debauchery put all thought of small-minded judging from her mind, replacing it with vivid images of posh flats and carefully manicured lawns and free-spirited beauties of both sexes in diaphanous togas.

A delighted peal of laughter greeted the Brit's description of his own painted costume, followed by a breathy, "I'm sure you both were beautiful ..." Reva felt herself going green with envy; not a hateful, spiteful jealousy, but a softer, more wistful sort. She desperately wished she could fall in with the sorts who traveled and whiled away days in lavish parties; maybe find herself in the center of a torrid love affair or the winsome muse for a tortured artist. They were the romantic dreams of a young girl who had never been far from home, but hearing Leon describe his misadventures was akin to hearing a firsthand tale of heaven, of gaining a glimpse of a world that had only been hinted at in film and story. She was utterly and completely enthralled.

"It all sounds so wonderful! Oh, I'm sure there's a terrible side to it all, but it honestly does sound like some sort of wild dream! You're so lucky to have experienced that ..."

Though they shared a wall, a hall, and a bathroom, Reva and Leon’s personal spaces were miles apart aesthetically. Where the Brit’s was modern, severe, dark, masculine, the dancer’s apartment had a decidedly light, feminine air that bordered on the old-fashioned. Walls had been left their original cream, portraits of movie stars and fashion plates - obviously taken from magazines yet rather artistically arranged given their humble origins - breaking the monotony of neutral color. The main living space housed second-hand furniture: A fainting couch covered in a white satin, back and legs a pale pink, and a pair of armchairs upholstered in a minty green that looked better suited to a spinster aunt’s drawing room. A radio stood in one corner, framed family pictures perched atop, and on a coffee table between the armchairs and couch could be found a gramophone and accompanying records, lifestyle and fashion magazines mixed amongst the vinyl.

All this was taken in as soon as the front door was opened, allowing both the apartment’s occupant and her guest entrance. They were returning from an evening at the Peabody, Reva as entertainer and Leon as audience member. The dancer’s spirits were high, infectious, her laughter ringing through the apartment’s halls as they made their way up the stairs. Her show had been a success, earning her enthusiastic applause and a small arrangement of gifts - most noticeably bouquets of flowers which were now cradled in the crook of one arm - as she left the building, breaking hearts in her wake.

Leon’s presence at the show, though she had only spotted him after, had been another boon to her spirits. Since their first real meeting, the girl had taken quite the unexpected shine to her neighbor and she was truly pleased that he had kept his word on seeing her perform.

"Make yourself at home," she called, voice trailing as she moved to the kitchen where the flowers were rather unceremoniously dumped on the counter. "Feel free to put on some music or something if you’d like!"

Freely moving around the space, he took in everything - the pictures, the arrangement of furniture, the little touches of the woman that could clearly be picked from those that were a product of mass manufacturing and the inability to afford one (or two) of a kind. Leon smiled in the quaintness of it all; it was far from his tastes, but it seemed to fit the ragdoll perfectly.

A kettle of water was put on the stove to boil - “I’m out of tea, I hope coffee is ok!” - and a variety of sweets and fruits were gathered and arranged on a prettily painted serving tray, the offering brought out to be placed on the coffee table for the pair’s casual perusal.

Leon’s secondary comment would have brought a flush of color to the girl’s cheeks if she were the type to fluster at masculine flirtations. “Oh, I’m sure you could if you looked long and hard enough …” She winked, the gesture saucy. “I’ll be two shakes; I really should put something on. What would the neighbors say?” A faux scandalized statement as the lone neighbor to say anything was sitting in her front room.

On that teasing note, she disappeared to her bedroom, leaving Leon to continue his musical sorting. Unsurprisingly, the girl’s musical taste trended towards popular dance records, though a few eccentric gems could be found, too. A singular jazz album stood out not only for its label, which marked it as a race record, but also for the inscription in one corner of the cover: For My Angel, Love Conrad. No doubt a memento from a former flame.

Reva reappeared as the kettle whistled its task completion, sliding silently sideways to quiet the racket. Mugs, sugar and creamer were balanced on a plate-come-tray, the display much less impressive than Leon’s tea service a week before. This was set beside the platter proper and, back to stay, Reva lounged on the sofa. She had divested herself of sparkling gems and jacket, donning now a scarlet kimono with an intricate design picked out in golden thread. Whether she wore something or nothing beneath it was almost impossible to tell, though the front slit formed by overlapping fabric halves offered tantalizing glimpses of bare thigh, knee, calf, ankle.

"Stop them!"

He heard the clerk shout just as he was walking into the store, putting his arms out to corral a couple of young lads who were trying to scurry out with armloads of sweets and snacks that hadn’t been paid for. “Whoa there!” he said, stopping them in their tracks. He knew them all, knew their families, and it was unlike any of them to pull such a stunt. The oldest boy wasn’t more than ten and the others looked to him as the leader to get them out of the jam they’d found themselves in.

"Come on. Let’s go in and see what the damage is." He ushered them back to the counter and had them pile their loot up, making sure each one turned out his pockets as well. The clerk was understanding, not so much concerned with punishing the youngsters since the merchandise had been returned without incident, but in their attempt to escape, they had knocked over a large crate of juice whose boxes had exploded all over the floor. "You boys get this mess cleaned up, and you’ll be free to go." He didn’t mention that he would still be informing their parents of their attempted heist, but their guilty nods were enough to send them off to fetch a couple of mops.

Her spirits remained high, despite the dark humor now at play. It was a trick she had learned in her pre-Ragdoll days, when she had been employed to entertain men in a more intimate setting. Flirt and flounce and keep the mood bright and gay and, maybe, moods wouldn’t darken or turn violent. Not that she believed herself to be in any danger with Leon, quite the opposite, in fact, but old habits die hard, especially those that were akin to second nature.

Falling into a sated silence, the reporter simply smiled and stood to collect the remnants of their impromptu get together. Placing the items back upon his kitchen’s counters, he, by chance, noticed the time displayed by a silver-shining clock upon his counter, dagger hands clearly pointing out his blatant lapse in timeliness. Eyes widened at his error, and soon enough he darted from the kitchen, back to his stacks of papers upon the desk.

Her opinion of his looks was revised, too, given this new light in which she viewed him. She found his profile striking and imagined that a well-tailored suit would only enhance his natural masculine beauty.

His rushing about burst that daydream bubble and she looked up to him. "Oh, jeez, I'm sorry! I shouldn't have kept you!" Knowing what it was to be a slave to a strict timetable, she hopped out of her chair and showed herself to the door. There, she paused and turned, hand on the frame.