Re: [Strip club: Nel & Eames]
Eames was undeniably who and what he was in the world - awake, that was. Asleep he could be anything he chose to be, the filament of someone's imagination twisted and twined like jewellery wire into something shining and seductive and utterly lethal that Eames wore the way this woman wore her jacket, darling. With an ease that surpassed comfort into elegance. But that didn't mean he gave it all away in the breadth of his shoulders or the thickness of his thighs in Italian cotton-silk blend. It was funny, darling, how all Eames' secrets were inextricably locked deep down in the exact place he could be whatever a little imagination let him free to be.
It was a party trick, the low, confident inference drawn from the situation and from the woman herself. Eames didn't need a camera to say the woman was showy when she wanted to be, there was the scarf and the mirrored blonde cut precisely and expensively, but the party trick had landed however it would. Eames deliberately ignored the very fact that he'd no mark in mind to roll out the full suite of tricks in his tool-kit and he smiled as he picked out one of the cigarettes from her case, with fingers surprisingly delicate.
"Oh, rule makes it sound very official, doesn't it? I don't like official, far too dull. But I know better than to tell a woman anything about women in general," Eames said without apology, and he rolled the cigarette between forefinger and thumb, gently and inhaled before he leaned toward the oily lick of flame from the lighter. "Ta."
He didn't expect clarity from the woman and he didn't get it, which was rather more satisfying than she likely meant it to be. He held the card between finger and thumb, heavy card-stock, it had heft, a style but that was intentional and glanced at the detail on the front. Eames didn't cad about in the world of high celebrity, darling, it was far too congested with people who didn't bury anything particularly far down. But he recognized the name.
"You're far away from anywhere with an award-winner falling out of a taxi, aren't you?" But he didn't ask why, Eames didn't ask pointless questions. "I've seen your work somewhere, gallery escapes me. Is it, though?" He leaned in the direction of her ash-tray, let the end of his cigarette flake over ceramic.
"Or does it make something into something else? It all depends on what you think memory ought to do. Capture something exactly as it is, or transform something into something else. It can't do what that can do," the camera, darling. "But does it need to?"