#midcenturies

relentless melt.

richard stares. hard. its edge feels different than his focusing stares, assessing what's in front of him with only one good eye. this one feels pointed, a little angry. a flash of hurt—physical? emotional?—pinches his forehead.

emma rapidly beats some eggs with a fork feet away from the table. the tines hitting against the bowl are almost too loud to his senstive ears. she and father insisted the preacher stay for breakfast. richard does not want to eat in front of him.

his throat clicks as he works to speak. his lips tremble with the effort. "am i. hm," self-conscious, his head dips. he lifts his index finger and crooks it to cover his mouth. "one of your interesting. people."

the night of the hunter.

there's a collared, big-eared white man calling her dear. claudia bristles. the slopes of her shoulders jump by a half-inch.

mikey and nicky.

the jacket's thick. elijah's had it for a couple years, he guesses. or knows. there's something attractive about men who do not fuss over new garments every time the seasons change. perhaps because he does.

marion's gaze skims away and ahead. freida's arm in arm with some pretty young thing. when she turns back from looking at them, they laugh like schoolgirls with a secret. he knows why.

he wordlessly directs elijah. hand suddenly at his elbow, then sliding his arm underneath. they mirror his dear friend and her date. their sides are close.

somewhere, a lonesome bell tolls eleven times.

HALF-ASLEEP AND PARTICULARLY IRATE BECAUSE OF IT, ARIA LETS OUT A LONG, LOW GROWL-MOAN. She considers bonking her head against Mónica's shoulder, cat-like and unnecessarily aggressive, but she buries her face into the pillow instead.

a tree grows in brooklyn.

as if cued, anthony arrives with the bottle for refills. he's large, imposing, dark hair neat and slick with pomade. his skin smells like aftershave and cologne. he tops their drinks off, and takes away their empty plates. sorel once told her anthony served every meal as if it were the last supper. it's endearing.

gilda watches him, affectionate, before turning to edith.

but bill needs that. he thought it was security sitting there the far end of success, doing what he loved in order to keep himself fed. then he discovered that folks liked him most when all the songs were about what it's like to well and truly starve. it's what makes them feel seen.

" don'tcha just love it? "

" i'll keep you out of trouble. or you'll keep me out of trouble. i forget the arrangement. " bill warbles around the end of his cigarette. " either way, we're gonna need each other in here. "

the odds of finding trouble here are lower than they are at some of bill's other haunts. it's the only place he plays where people care what kind of jacket he's wearing while he does it. truthfully, to that point, he's been working this lounge long enough that the audience is starting to lose their power over him. he's not as intimidated as he once was. still, it's nice to have a man like reverend mercer in the crowd. to play for real people.