#daziest

"I'd say, you're the first?" She glances down, mindfully letting the leftover ashes collect in the bottom of the glass. "I should say, it's kind of that delight you're never to revisit. After a certain number of good things happen, that's that." 

"delightful, " she repeats after herself. 

She's comparing it to the fleeting time with him she's spent, but she can't.

"How you construct something like it," unable to connect the two, not in front of him, "so they'll gather right by you. If you ever need them," she tightens her hold around his elbow anyway. "So far removed from run of the mill worries, like loneliness." 

   "It makes me wonder." It's such an empty statement, without promise, uninspiring, underwhelming. Everything a little much like Daisy.

"…That's just so much unlike you." Thinking aloud was one thing she'd never been guilty of. Inexcusable, catch her gaze, catch her hand, catch her flinching at her own statement. but it was so, that around him it was liable to be more frequent. 

   Catch her enraptured at the idea of you. Things that never happen, are all possible with this man about.

Daisy's shrug, disappointed with whatever as ever. Defines the main difference between these two. Taking his advice as always for naught, she smothers the muted flame out in her hand, taking away simple authority she gains from aggressively stubbing out her cigarette for good. 

"But tell me. Men like you, do you make yourselves up, and is outing yourself just as spectacular?" Her eyes dilate, taking up another turn. She swiftly snatches his other hand, and? as she squeezes it, in a reaffirming gaze and a ploy to get him to look up at her.

Her eyes flicker, blacking out, to remind her --- she has particularly unsightly amends to make.

She looks up briefly, to find in between her second and third fingers is fixed the item of her stress, pressed to the corner of the peeling and charring away at the shin-high table. Without a moment of reprieve, she reaches down to pick it up when it dribbles off the ledge, which singes her. She scowls inaudibly on both knees, tossing her hand until the scalded feeling leaves her. 

Casualties such as, burning the place they were borrowing, not theirs, are clear signs Daisy and the simple joys in her life simply do not mix well. 

Miss Buchanan bashfully turns up to her company, fingertips settling on his downturned hand. and it's a deafening pause sinking all the way to their knees.

"Is there always going to be an exit?" She asks, to the man with all the answers. Her gaze softens, taking the sight of him in with the deepest esteem. Today, tomorrow. The next year, come in time.

oh, she'll hear about him, alright. There's nothing secretive about Daisy Buchanan, shallow, petty, terrible at keeping her promises, but there is one thing. That she holds in her eyes when she surveys him like this. 

questions such as, 'Do I "know" you, have I ever heard of you, when you happen to disappear?' Into the next year, and a half, 'How are you going to go?' and. 

'How will I. Do I get to know?' Exclusivity is charming, it happens, in books, in schemes, in things that beg to pass as something they are trying to be. 

She clutches at his wrist instead. Fingers drifting over his knuckles in a soothing manner, and she questions without asking. 

"What a man you are."

Daisy comments, letting the statement hang in the air. "that I get the treat of feasting in the time of like this." It's curious, and it's a forlorn objective but she smiles at him.

serenely. Sincerely. disparagingly, with an ounce of defeat to complete it, the golden girl traces over his strong fingers and the defining features of his face one last time with a carrying look.