→ (signpost) wrote in repose, @ 2015-11-13 03:08:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, matt devlin, wren henry |
Carnival: "Sparrow" & Matt
Who: "Sparrow" and Matt
What: A performance
Where: The Outskirts Carnival
When: Nowish
Warnings/Rating: TBD
The tent was tall and crowded, flaps open to the cold night sky, and bodies crammed close. They came from the Capital, mostly, because no one could resist something strange, and the whispers about the carnival were always, always strange. The lights were low, lanterns and romantic flickers, and old times brought to modern days on foot-trampled grass. The stage was low, and it was standing room for the hooch. An extra fee after the show ended, and pretty girls with skin to bare beneath those flickering lights. The hooch was more romantic than the trailer park outside town, the one where girls fell to their knees for nearly nothing, and it was more romantic than the strip club and its sticky counters and grabbing hands. This was a throwback, a reminder, something reminiscent of days long gone.
There were a few girls in the show, and the blonde with the ringlet curls was just one among them. She was small of stature, soft of hips, and she wore the same sequined gold that the other girls wore. Underthings that shimmered when the girls moved, and the music hearkened to burlesque. Slow and sultry, and it was a different kind of heat. Slow, slow and not the rush of baring everything that could be found in modern shows.
Three songs, and that was all. It ended with a quick show of pink, titillation in search of more money, and the barker collected for after. After was the same as it was everywhere, and the universal profession was still universal, even in places where romance still clung to skin heated by candlelight.
The young woman in shimmer and blonde went back to her trailer, like she did every night, and she waited. Her door was open, and the trailer was silver, and the flowers outside were defiant silk beneath cold skies moon lit.
Music played, and the blonde slipped a cream robe on soft shoulders. She left the robe loosely cinched, and she turned the heat on, just a little, just enough to take off the chill. It smelled like gasoline and burn, and the scent of honey and vanilla that warmed the small space fought with the other scents. She sat on the bed, and she listened to the sounds of the carnival settling in for the night. She liked the sounds. She liked not being alone, and while she didn't remember much, she did know that, and she knew it for certain.
She didn't want to be alone.