Bring your sister if you can't handle it.
Dec 27, 2008 18:55:08 GMT -5
Post by Andrew on Dec 27, 2008 18:55:08 GMT -5
Andrew had been playing for about an hour, sitting at the piano in his best suit, which also happened to be his most androgynous one, playing for the singer currently on the stage as she sang her songs about the street. She had picked up a few of her songs from Guilbert, but her style was nowhere near dear Yvette's - she was far too sensuous, less angular, altogether less attractive, as well.
About five minutes ago, the man with the mop of straw-colored hair had left him alone, and Andrew had been glad for it; it wasn't easy to play piano with someone sitting on the stool beside you and placing his arm around your waist, breathing absinthe-breath and silly idiotic words into your ear. Nonetheless, his warmth had faded by this time and Andrew grudgingly admitted to himself that he missed it.
How pathetic it was, honestly, that this was what his life had come to. More exciting, of course, than that of a drab housewife's or lawyer's or something like that, but in the end, cafes and cabarets didn't matter. He had settled into a pattern, a schedule, he'd been bored, he knew what to expect of life, and he wasn't young anymore. The bohemian route had seemed so much more posh than anything else, once; now it was really the same. Was there nothing else in it?
He leaned back from the piano and pushed his fingers through his hair. He'd been playing on and off now most of the night, and was ready to get away, maybe see a play or something else he could escape from. But that didn't do all that much good, either, for he'd been behind the scenes enough time for the magic to be gone. Finally, incomprehensible plays - with their silly poetic, jewelled phrases, their rudimentary staging, their glassy-eyed actresses with mad Opheliac hair - were nothing more than incomprehensible. He wished he could pretend, though; go back to the past. He made a gesture to the man behind the bar, who nodded as he poured more of the poison over sugar cubes into bubbled glasses, and got up from the piano, where, as he was leaving, he knew, someone would take his place.
He got his coat on the way out and asked a man by the door to light him a cigarette. The man tried to leer, but seemed too taken aback by the glitter and appeal of a magical, alien performer to manage, as he handed him the cigarette from his mouth. Andrew thanked him without looking back and stepped into the gusty night, hair becoming tangled only moments out. The chill went down into his skeleton and got stuck there, but it didn't touch his skin, and otherwise it was rather warm. Blowing blue smoke from his pouting lips, he headed off down the street, thinking idly that he might find some form of entertainment he was not yet acquainted with.
But he doubted it.
About five minutes ago, the man with the mop of straw-colored hair had left him alone, and Andrew had been glad for it; it wasn't easy to play piano with someone sitting on the stool beside you and placing his arm around your waist, breathing absinthe-breath and silly idiotic words into your ear. Nonetheless, his warmth had faded by this time and Andrew grudgingly admitted to himself that he missed it.
How pathetic it was, honestly, that this was what his life had come to. More exciting, of course, than that of a drab housewife's or lawyer's or something like that, but in the end, cafes and cabarets didn't matter. He had settled into a pattern, a schedule, he'd been bored, he knew what to expect of life, and he wasn't young anymore. The bohemian route had seemed so much more posh than anything else, once; now it was really the same. Was there nothing else in it?
He leaned back from the piano and pushed his fingers through his hair. He'd been playing on and off now most of the night, and was ready to get away, maybe see a play or something else he could escape from. But that didn't do all that much good, either, for he'd been behind the scenes enough time for the magic to be gone. Finally, incomprehensible plays - with their silly poetic, jewelled phrases, their rudimentary staging, their glassy-eyed actresses with mad Opheliac hair - were nothing more than incomprehensible. He wished he could pretend, though; go back to the past. He made a gesture to the man behind the bar, who nodded as he poured more of the poison over sugar cubes into bubbled glasses, and got up from the piano, where, as he was leaving, he knew, someone would take his place.
He got his coat on the way out and asked a man by the door to light him a cigarette. The man tried to leer, but seemed too taken aback by the glitter and appeal of a magical, alien performer to manage, as he handed him the cigarette from his mouth. Andrew thanked him without looking back and stepped into the gusty night, hair becoming tangled only moments out. The chill went down into his skeleton and got stuck there, but it didn't touch his skin, and otherwise it was rather warm. Blowing blue smoke from his pouting lips, he headed off down the street, thinking idly that he might find some form of entertainment he was not yet acquainted with.
But he doubted it.