Ballroom: Bedroom
No one had invited him to the bedrooms, but that didn't stop him from claiming one for himself. After his conversation with the gal who had taken one of his cigarettes as a souvenir from their meeting, he had roamed the party for some time, dancing with this girl or that one, and, in one case, a dapper young gentleman with an easy smile. But his feet were tired, his back was damp with sweat, and that left him stretched out on the plush mattress with his arms folded behind his head.
The light in the bedroom was better than it had been down below in the basement, leaving the ink that was tattooed into his skin easier to read, the words easier to make out. Poetry and sweeping curves and round, soft shapes, there was a story there to read if one wanted to get close enough to do so. Tiny words across his collarbone, a circle of rhyme around his neck, trailing sonnets and longing ballads over his shoulders. Songs to be sung, words to be said, more than the man would probably give voice to himself.
The door to the bedroom was left open, a silent invitation to any who might want to join him, stretched out there on the mattress, those leather pants clinging and molding themselves to his bottom half. He reclined on the mattress, the duvet, the mound of pillows behind him, at ease and at rest in a way he didn't know often in real life. But that was what this place was for, wasn't it? Putting aside everything else in lieu of letting your inner soul shine... if only for a moment.