Soft rays of light filtered through the blinded windows of Bly's hotel room. The strength of the loose threads of sun indicated some morning hour or a little past noon. The alarm clock at Bly's bedside read 8:03 AM, so it was safe to say that Bly had managed to awake at a decent hour for the first time this week. Bly grinned as though congratulating herself for some personal achievement: she had finally managed to beat jet-lag. Wow, I never imagined being awake in the morning could actually feel so liberating. Hot air surpassed her rosy lips in a long yawn as her long arms stretched toward the ceiling. Her chocolate brown eyes travelled from the alarm clock’s bright red digits to a burnt sienna comb laid against the top of a marble dresser. Bly gazed at herself in the vanity mirror attached to the dresser, bringing her arms near her body as her fingertips teased her skin. She pursed her lips once upon examining the skin below her eyes, fingers outlining the scantly wrinkled flesh. There she spotted what appeared to be the beginnings of dark circles--battle wounds, she'd like to think. But as most surface-level wounds are best to do, they heal with time and proper treatment. So she imagined that within a week's time--hopefully less--the markings would be even less apparent, if not completely gone. Hmm, they're a minor concern at best; I should really consider what pieces to play tonight.
Bly inclined her head for a different angle while her fingers gently stretched the skin, testing the level of darkness. A little into her analysis, it became clear that her poking and prodding wasn't going to accomplish anything. So she stopped, closing her eyes as her head leaned towards the back of her chair. Her arms fell to her sides and she eventually forced her body into an appropriate posture. She sighed once, grabbing her comb blindly with her right hand. Slowly, she raked through the sea of darkness, retrieving any wayward strands that didn't quite meld with the current. Her left hand fingered through her hair as she tamed and smoothed her tresses as best she could. Of course she couldn't get rid of the curls, and she was difficult to convince in actually having her hair straightened. Even her manager, Tami, the most wonderful woman in the world by Bly's own admission, could not compel Bly to do something that might go against some deep value. Sure, Bly didn't mind acquiring tattoos every some odd years, but her hair was a completely different story. It was hard to explain her choice and unwavering attitude in the matter; maybe she was just a little bit selective about her appearance. Maybe her hair was just that important.
Who knows or even cares for that matter. Bly shrugged at the itinerary her thoughts were travelling--no need to fret. Her eyes opened to review her work as she laid her comb down on the dresser. Nimble fingers ran through her locks numerous times as she parted her hair into three sections. Gradually, she commenced plaiting her hair into a large braid that would predictably stretch down the center of her back--maybe a little farther. Her bangs remained parted toward the left; so that much was taken care of as she deftly weaved one stream of hair between two others. Soon she was completing the braid as she positioned the ends of her hair over her left shoulder. She allowed an inch or two to remain loose as she clipped her ends between her right index and middle fingers and thumb. She grasped a sea blue ribbon from the surface of the dresser and wrapped it neatly around the end of her plaited hair. Once secure, she dropped her shoulders and allowed her braid to fall toward her back.
"Ok," she uttered to herself, knowing that no one else inhabited her single-bed hotel room. Rastel was not with her at the time, and she expected him, and her manager, to arrive within a day or two (if not sooner). Her furry companion's absence was felt due to the lack of sound, save Bly's motion and breathing. (Maybe she should crack a window once she returned.) "This Amazon would like to leave this room and get some business done--breakfast being a particular that cannot be ignored."
She rose from her chair, though not without looping the strap of her navy blue purse along her right arm. It contained all things of immediate importance: her room key, wallet, cell phone, and a few unmentionables, among other things. She pulled down her equally blue blouse, aiding its fall to the start of her capri pants. With a final glance in the mirror, she smiled at herself, pleased with her current guise and general well-being. Her feet carried her to the oak-wood entrance of her room, where her sandals rested comfortably at the base of the door. Bly slipped her feet into said sandals, and stepped back, opening the door in the same beat. She exited her room, closing the door behind her as she viewed the interior of the hallway. Her room--324--was located on the the third floor of the Sheridon hotel, so a little trip was required to reach the first level of the hotel. While her room was quite comely by 5-star standards, the most luxurious rooms were located on the upper tiers. Unfortunately, Bly was loath to house herself in such rich settings: the additional space and amenities required another fee (on top of the generous donation she proffered the hotel for letting her stay therein). She had to be careful if she wanted to earn a profit.
She stepped towards the right, gazing amusingly at a few paintings that lined the pearl-licked walls. She wasn't an art expert or even an art major, but she assumed that most of the artwork was much older than the hotel itself. The scenes were interesting, albeit a bit idyllic and unrealistic: a woman having a party with royalty; a man riding a horse with whom Bly assumed was his lady; a young boy and an equally young playing violins with the boy as the girl's teacher; and more recently, a cast of actors and actresses and their audience (separated by a more obvious fourth-wall, on top of what the painting already established). In this day and age, Bly could not imagine herself dressed so ornately and being waited on by a crowd of people; it just didn't work that way in her reality. Besides, the thought was rather embarrassing, though she didn't mind large groups and enthused fans. As much as she was a talented pianist and cherished person, she simply didn't deserve that level of importance: it was a waste of time. She wasn't trying to save the world or offer false hopes for world peace; she simply wanted to live and be happy with her existence. She was doing a relatively good job of that thus far, minus the occasional bumps in the road. Simply, she was happy right now.
Maybe I won't be tomorrow, or even the day after, but right now joy is the mood of the day.
In the midst of her observations, Bly didn't realize that she stood right before the elevator doors. Blinking from her distracted haze, she pressed the downward-pointing button and watched it glow brightly. Then she waited for the inevitable ding that would emit from the metal structure quite periodically. Anytime now . . . In the meantime, she wet her somewhat dry lips, digging into her purse for chap stick. (Maybe her inspection in the mirror hadn't been very thorough.) Once she found the desired item, she smeared a good layer of lip balm over her mouth. She returned the capsule to her purse as she watched the numbers hovering above the elevator. Apparently, the car was heading upward; presently, it was travelling from the first floor to the second. Bly anticipated a long rise before she would be allowed to descend floors. Not much I can do about that . . . She smacked her lips for flavor and smoothness; she'd selected the cherry flavored lip balm--SPF 15. She was definitely good to go.
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2 . . . ding . . . 3 . . . ding . . . What wonders waiting for an elevator car could do for one's patience. Time seemed so irrelevant at this point. Bly just wanted to go downstairs and test the breakfast buffet. Thankfully, before her foot could start tapping to an angry tune the elevator chimed, announcing the car's arrival. The metal doors slid open, and a young couple with locked arms walked past Bly and into the transport. It didn't matter that they made their entrance before she did; Bly was surprised she hadn't heard them coming. She arched a single brow in their direction as she entered the elevator car. They seemed much into themselves, so Bly eventually led her eyes elsewhere. While she spotted others therein, none appeared too distinct as she became settled. She kept quiet for the most part, later noticing a woman decked in a beige work-suit and matching heels. Bly peered into her face, having to crane her neck a bit in order to meet the woman's stature. Golden eyes, short blue locks caressing the corners of her visage, and lips gaped in what Bly would term "surprise": she was definitely pretty, very well dressed, and apparently disturbed. Bly offered a simper, meaning no harm by the seemingly unneeded attention. She half-turned as the elevator doors closed, wrapping a hand around her purse.
Her stomach lurched somewhat forward as the car began to move. As one would predict, the attendants would travel upward before heading to the first floor. A little bit of a wait--no big deal.
The suited woman glanced at the back of Bly's head, a light of discernment shinning within her eyes. While she'd barely had a moment to catch Bly's face, she immediately recognized those brown eyes and the tattoo slithering across the base of her neck. Closing her lips, she prepared to break the silence.
"Amazon," the woman queried as a ding resounded within the cubed area.
Bly turned in the woman's direction, curious as to how she knew the stage name.
"You know me," Bly answered in a questioning tone.
The elevator door opened to let out the couple from before--maybe they shared a room on this floor. Four persons rushed onto the car just in time for the elevator to rise to the fifth level of the hotel.
"Wow, I suppose I do; I never imagined that you would travel abroad, especially to London, England." The young woman paused, a blithe smile spreading from her lips as she held out her hand and the two shook in greeting.
"Heh, well, I thought I'd try out the global community; also, I have family here so I'm killing two birds with one stone."
"Wonderful."
"Yeah, it's nice . . . what's your name, if you don't mind my asking?" Bly felt a little guilty not knowing anything about a potential fan.
"Oh, that's right; excuse my lack of manners, my name is Chioma." Red mixed with soft skin to sculpt a lovely blush that roused the blood in Chioma's cheek. Bly found the display rather amusing, though maintained a reasonable distance during the display of embarrassment.
"Well, Mrs. Chioma, this Amazon is very pleased to meet you."
"Likewise, Amazon."
"So, did you come all this way to see me perform, or are you leaving a poor cuckold at home to wallow in his loneliness?"
Chioma giggled at the mild barb, covering her mouth with her right hand. "Neither, to be honest," she admitted, clearing her throat with a cough as she unveiled her mouth, "I'm actually here on business with a group of fellow US expatriates."
"Interesting, so you're an expat; well, I don't want to keep you from your money or sense of freedom, but if you really do have time tonight . . . stay here for dinner and a show."
"You'll be performing?"
"Yes."
"Original compositions?"
"I'm uncertain at present . . . maybe."
"I see . . . I'll see what I can do, if I return in time."
"All right."
And like that, their little chat ended with Chioma offering Bly her business card. In exchange, Bly gave her blue-haired "fan" an autographed CD--her second release to date.
Upon reaching the first floor, the elevator doors laid agape at the expected ding. Bly's sandals carried her out onto a floor as glossed as a refined pearl. Of course she had already seen the main lobby in all its shine and glamour, but her eyes brooked no resistance to another look-see. She waved to Chioma as the businesswoman exited from the hotel's double doors. The business card was deposited into a purse pocket as Bly sashayed from the spit-shined foyer into the neighboring dining area. As she drew near, it became obvious that breakfast was almost always a joyous occasion at the Sheridon hotel. Rife with chatter and the ting of plates and utensils, the atmosphere was starting to make Bly's stomach a little grouchy. Heh, might as well go to be seated before I starve. She approached a podium, where stood a hostess and an accompanying waitress in matching burgundy threads. Their name-tags read "Ashton" and "Adela," respectively. Of the two, Ashton was the first to answer Bly as her eyes marked a sign of wanting--badly.
"Miss, welcome to the Sheridon hotel's breakfast buffet," spoke Ashton, who elbowed the waitress into summoning a menu, "Do you have a seating preference?"
"Not in particular," Bly rejoined with a polite smile, "I'll leave that decision up to you."
"Very well . . . Adela, will be your waitress for today."
"Please follow me, Miss," requested the young waitress as she led Bly through a stream of corners and open space amongst the clothed tables.
Bly followed without another word spoken, eyeing numerous guests along the way. Perhaps she did not fit in with the lot of this crowd in her "stretch" clothes; it was evident that some diners were very well-off whereas others were just enjoying a day away from life's toil. She wondered if there was another person who knew her as Amazon, other than a few of the hotel staff and Chioma. The guests were generally blameless if they hadn't heard about the pianist yet; as mentioned in her talk with Chioma, she didn't have much of a fan-base outside of the US since she had never ventured too far from home before. Truly, this sort of exposure was somewhat new to her only because she hadn't established a continuing reputation on the European continent. But I'll have time for that in the near future; I'll need to stretch my legs here first.
"Here we are," Adela announced, waving her arm towards the table with a towel-wrapped set of utensils and a single glassed tulip placed on top of its surface.
It was surprisingly simple, yet appropriate, given the majestic detail and splashes of color given to the table cloth.
"Thank you, Adela," Bly voiced, a kind twinkle in her eyes as she seated herself, laying her purse down beneath the table.
"No problem, eh, you'll be needing this." Adela extracted the menu from her grasp and handed it to Bly, who was quick to survey its contents. Adela simpered as she waited, feeling the weight of exhaustion from an early-morning shift.
Bly glanced at the waitress from the corner of her eye, noting the sag behind Adela's light green optics. I guess I'll try to hurry this up . . . make it easier for the both of us.
"Ok," Bly spoke with a start, licking her glossed lips as she paused just a moment, "I would like a fruit salad filled with raspberries, blueberries, strawberries, lychee, apples, and a light sprinkling of plantains."
"Ok, anything else?" Adela was quick to scribe down the constituents of Bly's forthcoming meal, seeming a little more zestful than before.
"Hmm . . ." A rubbing thumb against the side of her chin meant that Bly was having a little trouble coming to a conclusion.
"I suppose I could have a glass of plain soy milk with my breakfast; additionally, I would like oatmeal coated in a thin layer of honey, wheat bread toast, scrambled eggs, two zucchini muffins, and a slice of spinach cheddar quiche."
After listing off her breakfast items, Bly grinned with a hint of accomplishment as she handed her menu to Adela.
"So, will that be all," the waitress inquired, writing up the last item before gazing at a rather pleased-looking Bly.
"Yes, and I thank you for your patience, Miss Adela."
"Not a problem; I should return shortly with your meal." Adela bowed solemnly, her lavender hair fanning over her face. She stepped away without another word and left Bly to her musing and idle amusement with the other diners.
Bly nodded lightly, eyes scanning the table as she unwrapped her eating utensils from what was to be her breakfast napkin. Immediately, she placed the fork, spoon, and knife in what she felt to be their appropriate positions, though she could not be sure due to utter lack of table etiquette. Sure, being polite and having common sense at the dinner table came easy to her, but she certainly didn't know what else there was to acknowledge in that regard.
"This may be right," she said to herself, as she folded the top edge of her napkin into the collar of her blouse, allowing the white length of the cloth to cover her front to about her navel. Once finished with the minor task, her eyes traveled the premises in interest.
Now, while not much could thrill her at this point, she felt that most people were a curiosity in and of themselves. At one corner, she spotted a sheet of crimson curtain, more than likely concealing the stage where she would later play piano. This brought a small grin to her face as her eyes sought another subject. To her left, she spotted a garrulous table, featuring a brunette woman, a man whom Bly assumed was her husband and about five children champing food and chatting at the same time. Now that looked like a very happy table to be seated before, even if one was not likely to be appointed the center of attention. Heh, but it's nice . . . family meals I guess. When she looked toward the right, something, or rather someone, bearing a comely yet somewhat eerie guise caught her eyes. His skin was nearly as pallid as the moon, but quite beautiful, and perhaps blemish-free--at least from this distance. It was hard to zero-in on his gaze, which appeared buried beneath concentration on an array of breakfast foods and lustrous black bangs.
Bly blinked slowly, lowering her head a smidgen as her lips gaped in some wonderment. Something about him struck her as maybe a little familiar, though she had trouble pin-pointing what it was about him that she should be aware of. I've seen a face like his before . . . maybe not entirely the same, but akin to something I've encountered . . . His mere presence seemed to beckon some recent memory, but nothing rose to the forefront of her mind.
In the time that she stared at the faraway stranger, thoughts concerning food, the peal of diners eating and conversing amongst themselves, and her meeting with the stage manager nearly dispersed. But her daze only lasted until she realized how rude the act of staring was, being reminded of a slight miss with Chioma a little earlier. Oye, this is ridiculous . . . even if he hasn't registered to my gaze, I shouldn't just outright stare at him. A sigh fluttered from Bly's lips as she raised her head and directed her eyes towards her hands, quiescent against her lap. Common sense, come on . . . you go through the proper channels to get to know someone, even one as captivating as him. One quick glance, and she determined that a quick hello, and maybe an apology, was in order.
Her stomach growled in pain. But after breakfast.
The tulip was beginning to look quite edible right now.
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Bly's eyes whispered death and devour to the tulip, whose survival would largely be attributed to Adela's forthcoming return. Eventually, said waitress ambled toward Bly's table balancing a tray of food atop her hands. Strangely, her suit was tag-less, indicating that she had for some reason changed her outfit or misplaced her label. Her eyes were instantly weary this time, though Bly seemed too distracted to notice even at the whiff of sustenance. Adela met Bly's gaze, a brow rising narrowly at the woman's concentration on the flower. Perhaps Bly thought that one tulip was inadequate; Adela really didn't know--nor did she care--and it wasn't her job to provide floral arrangements for hotel guests.
"Miss, I hope I haven't kept you waiting for too long," Adela articulated, a cautious smile sprouting from her smooth lips. She gently set the tray down, making sure all foodstuffs were left undisturbed and in mint condition. Slowly she retraced her steps, pausing only to hear of Bly's approval; Adela seemed ready to relinquish her present duties and speed up the day.
"No . . . no," Bly managed, her eyes rising to a sight that brought color and energy to her dull mood.
"Oh, oh wow," exclaimed the Amazon as her optics roved a landscape of breakfast excellence. All requested items stood before her in a grand and entertaining arrangement. The fruit salad resembled a tilt-a-whirl ride: at the center rested slices of plantains sprinkled with berries, and near the edges of the bowl lychee-apple "cars" sat dangerously close to oblivion. The purlieu of the salad dish contained two medium-sized zucchini muffins; a plate of fluffed scrambled eggs; a pie-slice of spinach cheddar quiche; two pieces of wheat toast; golden brown oatmeal in a flower-print bowl; and lastly, a glass of plain soy milk lounging against the northwest corner of the tray.
Bly released an ecstatic grin, focusing her bright brown eyes on Adela, who watched the Amazon's reaction with relief. Now the waitress could leave and tend to another table; she was nearing the end of the day, and signs of satisfaction only made the terminal much closer.
"I'm glad that the food is to your liking, Miss," the waitress stated, bowing once again for good measure, "Please enjoy your breakfast and the rest of your stay at the Sheridon hotel."
"Heh, I'm certain that I will; thank you for your services."
"You're very welcome, Miss."
Adela nodded once, tiredness more than apparent in her gaze; she strode toward a couple seated six tables down for the next part of her shift. Bly hoped that the waitress would have a break sometime soon. A power nap could do wonders for productivity, even if just for a bit of time.
But that is her role to play in this large establishment; my good wishes can only do so much . . . maybe nothing at all.
Another glance towards her breakfast feast, Adela became little more than a memory in Bly's mind. She clapped her hands together and slid them apart as her right hand plucked a mixture of berries from the tilt-a-whirl. She dropped the fruit into her waiting mouth, champing on the tender skin and freeing seeds and colored streams for her taste buds to sample. Instantly, her eyes squinted from the burst of sugar; what a tang in the mouth that was. She inhaled once, swallowed, and then let out a breath in the same moment. Her other samplings required less tightening of the eyes, and for that she was grateful. Usually the first burst was the most troubling when she consumed sweet things. Some foods she couldn't tolerate at all. Honey and fruit were about all that she could handle.
Well, at least the worst is over . . . now there's just smooth sailing.
Bly prepared to combine a plantain with a slice of toast when the male stranger from before spoke, facing her with unmoving eyes. She froze like a deer caught in the headlights. Had he known of her stare? Did he simply ignore the infringement of peace? How had he been aware when he wouldn't even look at her? Her mind fumbled for an answer to her queries, but none appeared. Brown eyes moved from the tray to the young man's dark cloak which shielded his body from her vision. She blinked, her optics lifting to a pair of apple red orbs, unfocused and unknowing of her attention. Bly's look revealed utter confusion. As she listened to him speak, addressing her earlier examination, she wondered how he could know of her location without looking at her.
How? That is . . . unless he's . . .
And then it clicked with another perusal of his red eyes. They never moved, apparently. A minor haze coated their enigmatic depths. His pupils reacted to the lighting of the dining area, which was normal regardless of sight impairment. By now, the symptoms were much too obvious and Bly was surprised she hadn't noticed before. The young man was blind; he couldn't see her. And yet he knew where she was.
But I never called to him . . .
By now, the darkly clad man had turned to his meal having finished his commentary. His final words:
"Enjoy your breakfast madam.”
It was difficult to eat while his presence was much too puzzling. Moreover, he seemed to excuse her stare as something of an educational nature rather than mere intrusion. He didn't wish to rob her of the privilege to see what she wished--a privilege he lacked, it seemed.
"Will do, Sir," she rejoined in a quiet tone, trying the plantain and holding the slice of toast at bay.
It was wrong to think that she pitied him in any manner. Certainly his condition was his lot in life, and not something inherently terrible. It was beyond his control, as were other disorders affecting relatively able-bodied folk. He was quite capable from what she saw: he didn't need eyes to locate her. He likely possessed more secrets and repertoire than she cared to guess. Still, she didn't pity him. Rather, his words led her to another line of thought.
"Sir," she called to him, her eyes centering on his pale face, "In this instance, it causes you no vexation if I stare at you?"
She paused a moment, her eyes flitting from his face to her hands, still holding the half-eaten slice of plantain and toast. She lowered the items to the salad bowl as she concentrated on his visage once more.
"I’m of two minds. On one hand, I am personally embarrassed on my own behalf because this is something that I try my best to avoid."
An image of the Amazon's father reprimanding a much younger Bly came to mind; it was incorrect given the context of her present circumstances. He never taught her this particular lesson--Tami beat some sense into her.
"Undoubtedly your physical appearance is quite a draw. But I feel as though I’ve objectified you, and it would have been best for me to say something first, even if you did know that I was gaping at you."
Chioma's potential embarrassment came to mind at this, though that particular situation was slightly nuanced. Chioma had recognized a pianist, though that had probably been her second observation on top of seeing a much taller woman stare her in the face. While not being of the same exact nature, the two situations seemed purposeful in thought and memory.
"But on the other hand, if you really aren’t bothered by my stare, then I should have nothing to worry about. It’s never my place to tell someone how he should feel . . . maybe I am just exploring and experiencing the unknown, but both actions usually require an exchange of some sort."
Having made her chief sentiments known, Bly felt a little bolder in her position, though she couldn't tell whether the man listened to her or not. A light smile graced her features as she calmly cleared her throat, leaning forward a bit, though the gesture may have been unnecessary.
"I thank you for breaking the silence with such aplomb; I know I've said a lot, possibly a little too much, but I appreciate your words."
Perhaps an apology was unneeded.
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Little forethought had ever determined Bly's comfort in sharing a piece of her mind. She tended not to over-think her choices or words as a result. Bly freed whatever words floated to the surface so long as they suited the occasion. In this instance, she could not predict the response thereafter but hoped the young man would humor her a bit. She desired a verbal exchange--a gateway to other realms of conversation. She wanted for her thoughtful and somewhat aimless words to break the ice further. This beautiful stranger had certainly surprised her more than once this morning. There was much more to be sought in Bly acquainting herself with the gentleman, especially if he expressed some interest in her.
Maybe I shouldn't have babbled on like that. I haven't had much nourishment, so I couldn't guarantee good pacing or a clearly made point.
Strangely, a positive rejoinder did not seem possible until Bly witnessed the flow of words herself. How flattered she was that he liked her attention, though she considered a stare a simple act of wanting. She felt somewhat calmer, her smile more naturally level with the emotion of her eyes. Maybe there was more to share with him; she'd like to think that there were few barriers to getting to know the young man better.
“I see,” she voiced with a start, lowering her eyes as her finger silenced the itch of a brow, "Then I'm glad to have let slip this behavioral precept, as it has connected two people from different tables."
Even with his words of appreciation, Bly expected him to remain confined to his table. She still had a breakfast meal to attend to, and he was readying a croissant for consumption. This was a beginning, a first step to acquaintanceship. She thought he would desire an abrupt end to consider his food, as breakfast was a most important meal. But nimbly he rose from his chair with another intention. His steps were precise and calculated, careful with regard to his capabilities. Bly wondered how his blindness had affected his manner of walking. Browns eyes detected the movement of his lips, mouthing units of travel as he crossed the carpet floor.
Treading as though he measures the steps . . . most likely with practice and remembrance.
He soon stood before her, his tall figure dwarfing her height. His body cast a shadow against Bly's face, encouraging the widening of her eyes. Her gaze rose higher just to engulf the structure of his face--she never imagined that he would be this close so soon. His request was no less exciting, though reason convinced Bly that his sight would be different. Really, how could he stare at her without seeing eyes?
“To stare," the Amazon maundered as hands neared the skin of her face, "But how would you . . . oh."
Now two things occurred to Bly within a matter of seconds: firstly, in another context this could be deemed a violation of space; secondly, the young man had knowledge of her real name without her making mention of it. She was utterly perplexed, wondering what more he knew. What were his sources of Intel? Her eyebrows rose two inches too high. She attempted to divert the direction of his hands as she started to lean back. But once his fingertips touched the layer of skin she could move no longer. The chill stopped her, as did the gentle pressure he applied to his observance. Slowly, she realized what his eyes could not convey his hands made up for. His fingers were quite meticulous, roving the corners, hills, and depressions of her face. Starting from the curvature of her lips and trailing fingers to the chin, his touch produced a twitch to her jaw and the contracting of muscle. It wasn't that she was uncomfortable or resistant--far from it actually. He just felt so icy, and that coupled with the wan hue of his flesh made her wonder if he was anemic. Of course, that conclusion appeared less likely given his semblance of health and wellness. With his broad shoulders, well-defined cheekbones and prominent nose, she couldn't fathom the condition of his skin. (Perhaps he had handled a cold beverage before reaching her.) That much would remain a mystery for now; she couldn't focus heavily on unknowns as he spoiled her with attention.
A fire swelled within her cheeks providing a counterweight to the coldness of his fingers. He seemed almost tempted to pinch her face but instead continued upward, lowering the height of her eyebrows in soft strokes. She blinked softly as his hands paused, his mouth working to form some expression of appreciation. She stared into his face, visibly blushing though she believed the reaction went underneath the radar. His hands reminded her of children who marveled at her appearance, only to finger her skin and hair. In memory, Tami's twin daughters would usually feel the plumpness of Bly's lips and cheeks when she held them tightly in her arms. Sure, they often tugged her dark curls and poked an eye or two, causing Bly to promptly set them down, but the gesture was endearing.
What this man had displayed was a mixture of necessity, desire, and tenderness. Bly didn't know how quite to feel about his motion, though her body welcomed it gladly. She could not judge his "stare" on the same scale as visual stares she had received before. His was different. It colored his interest in a more genuine light, and for that she believed that she was really starting to fancy this fellow. His fingers didn't scream an excuse to touch her; the young man actually wanted to "see" her.
Maybe this is all going to my head a little too much.
His hands wandered from her face, tracing the air until he found her right hand. Bly pressed her lips together once she discovered his cold yet gentle grip. Her eyes lit up briefly as his mouth tickled the back of her hand, proffering a gesture that she seldom received from anyone outside of male family members. It was quite venerable in nature and so scarce an act that she assumed it a dead element of chivalry. Though clearly, chivalry as a whole was not extinct, and in this moment his name was Abraxas.
"Abraxas," Bly enunciated in a careful tone, powering the motor of her lips to speak the name again.
It was like scripture etched into the bark of a centenarian oak: while one may not ascribe distinct meaning to its text, its permanence left the impression of importance and history. Somehow, she knew historical record lay behind the name, though this was her first encounter with a man named Abraxas. Truly, the appellation suited one such as him; neither Abraxas nor his name were viewed all too negatively, though Bly knew there was still much to comprehend.
Abraxas was undeniably a person of interest, a figure of charm and personality, though a tad enigmatic. He left Bly wanting to hear more with each word he uttered.
Unfortunately, as his grasp slackened until her right hand was free, Bly knew he intended to leave. His time was up as he likely noticed Bly's mostly uneaten breakfast. He claimed himself a glutton of Bly's time; Bly wished he would stay longer. She would only refuse to eat in his presence until abstinence became ridiculous. Perhaps waiting in general was the object of ridicule. Either way, it was best he leave for now.
Before long, Abraxas bid Bly adieu, thanking her for allowing him his "visual" liberties. This brought a hand to Bly's right cheek, which had retained its heat.
"You're . . . you're very welcome," Bly nearly whispered as she watched Abraxas retrace his steps and take his seat before his remaining victual, "Another time, then." Her hand fell to her lap after a small caress and pinch of said cheek.
Her eyes watched him briefly as he messily smeared condiments on a croissant. There were no visible changes in mood or signs of complaint; he just did what he could it seemed. His disposition was quite admirable and practical. Really, there was no point in fussing over what one couldn't control. He could still feed himself--that mattered most.
Bly eventually faced her tray of food, sighing as she closed her eyes and tried to wish away her crimson cheeks. Her glossed lips molded a grin when all her concentration accomplished was making the redness more noticeable. Hopefully food would calm her down . . . take her mind off of things. Slowly, her eyes opened to the remnants of toast and plantain laid atop the tilt-a-whirl salad. Her stomach annunciated its ire once more after being neglected yet again. She couldn't blame the organ: no man or woman should come between Bly's stomach and its edibles. Her hands rubbed her gut abruptly, only to spring forward and grab a muffin and spoon. Chomping on the vegetable muffin she sampled spoonfuls of oatmeal that had cooled considerably. Of course, temperature was of no concern. Bly needed to eat something lest she faint from malnourishment later in the day.
And surely no pianist deserved to starve, especially not Bly.
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