Re: carnival: sparrow/matt
Only if she wanted to, and she turned to look at him, fingers already on that bottom drawer, and her slipping down to kneel in front of it. She wasn't graceful, not in that deliberate way. There was no slink to the girl on her knees in front of white wood. Non, she was just soft, and the grace of her movements was a thing born of slowness, of no rush and taking the time to move limbs without hurry. She smiled at him the same way. "Most men would say yes, if that was what they wanted to see." She tipped her head again, thinking it was really, really old-fashioned, the way he stood when she did, and wondering if anyone else had done that before in her life. But she couldn't remember, and the feeling was an old friend now, familiar. "I want to know what you want." She did. It wasn't a con, a sell. It wasn't a tactic, and it wasn't her way of getting more money out of him. If he was here, with her, then she wanted to know, and maybe she did this job for the wrong reasons. Pretending, filling things in, it wasn't the normal reason for girls finding their way to street corners.
"You stood up when I did." Afterthought, she hadn't intended to mention that, but she wasn't secretive. She didn't hide things well, and she thought it was sweet, and her approval was there, soft glows of light from youthful features, expressively blank, and she was a thing made of contradiction.
She thought about his ballerina, forgotten and he couldn't remember, and her voice was quiet, understanding, warm as the airstream with its air thick and close to the skin. "You don't remember her?" She opened the drawer, white wood tugged forward as she asked the question. Her fingers moved silk and satin aside, carefully folded over lace and replaced it safely in a new spot. She reached back toward the end of the drawer, and there were the ballet shoes.
Pink and soft and worn and worn. They were destroyed inside, not like a real pair of ballet slippers would be. But they were worn at toe and heel, and she wore them often in summer and spring, when the grass was green and didn't crinkle and dampen soles. She held the slippers up, so he could see. Perhaps it would help, seeing them. Nothing jogged her memory, and nothing brought back the water that had slipped through the sieve of her mind, but he might be different.
"Do you want me to?" Put them on, and it was obvious, the question, even without her finishing the sentiment fully.