Post by Regan Kelly on May 23, 2005 15:25:32 GMT -8
"Dot King was whittled from the bone of Cain
with a little drop of poison in the red, red blood
She need a way to turn around the bend
She said I want to walk away and start over again.."
with a little drop of poison in the red, red blood
She need a way to turn around the bend
She said I want to walk away and start over again.."
-Walk Away, Tom Waits
Evening, 1999. [/center]
"You should go get a drink!"
He gave her a puzzled look as she drew back, and she giggled, leaning back in to shout her words over the music.
"You should go get a drink!"
She watched him leave the dance floor, giggling and smiling behind her hand. After she watched him vanish into the throng by the bar, she stepped back down the hall to the dance floor, dancing down the hall as she made her way to the outskirts of the dance floor, humming snatches of songs in her throat. She found her way through the crowd, staking out a clear spot to wrap her arms around herself, swaying to the music and losing herself inside her perceptions. Gradually, her eyes closed and she began to dance by herself. The quiet jangling of the saints medallions at her wrists and throat were swallowed by the jazz, as were the footfalls of the man behind her, who caused her movements to still as he tapped on her shoulder. She turned to face him. His eyebrows were raised, lips an expression of patient amusement. After a considering moment, she took his extended hand in silent acceptance of his request.
He pulled her close, her left hand lightly resting on his right shoulder, as they began to move in a relatively smooth rhythm, meeting each other's gazes squarely. The angles of his face were obscured in the mix of darkness and shadows from the low lighting, done in blue and red.
"Why the saints, darlin'?"
She pursed her lips, moving out on his hand in a slow, thoughtful twirl before he pulled her back to him.
"I have a lot of things to pray for."
As the music changed pace, they moved in synch, from the formal dancing stance to her arms draped over his shoulders, lips curved in bemused puzzlement as they danced slowly.
"Why do I feel like I should know you?"
He chuckled, one hand on the small of her back, guiding her steps in a slow, steady fashion. Their feet wove steps together, her dark red toenails black in the darkness near the floor, next to his polished black shoes.
"Well, I could remind you of someone."
"I think if you reminded me of someone that I'd think that. Not that I feel like I should know you."
She tilted her head, hair tumbling across her shoulders with the movement as she watched him smile.
"I'll let you have a few guesses."
She grinned, hips swaying slowly, his other hand joining its' mate on the small of her back.
"Are you an old flame?"
"No, darlin', but you're pretty enough I could be a new flame." His lips formed a brief smile at her laughter, and she pursed her own lips, briefly.
"Are you an old friend?"
"In a manner of speaking, I could be."
"Are you someone I've met?"
"No, I can't say as you have, darlin'."
Her brows knitted, a hand withdrawing from his shoulders to put a hand over her necklace of silver saints, staring at him for a moment.
"Are you El Diablo?"
He stared at her for a moment, feet stopping in their pattern, before he threw his head back and laughed. Much of the sound was swallowed by the dance floor and music, and his hands tightened on the small of her back. He lifted his left hand from her back to grab her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze out of surprise.
"I am a Diablo, Catherine Foster."
When her companion of the evening began his return to the bar, Catie Foster was being rolled under the eyes of a devil in the street lamps outside. By the time her companion had set his drink down on a table to ask his friends if they'd seen the saint loving woman leave, the devil was shutting the door of a black limo behind him, her limp, docile hand in his.
