Story: Poles Apart (+88)Index | Time Under Chaos | Player Characters | Delluth | Story: Poles Apart Almost before the audience filed out of the tiny theatre, the opening-night party spilled out onto the stage itself, the prop furniture being the most comfortable in the place. Safe behind the curtain, Sarah Crowe had claimed a chair and a bottle of wine; the praise for her writing came without any further effort on her part. It had been a good opening night, she had to admit – only her third, and here she was thinking like she was an old pro already. She smiled and sipped at her wine. “There she is!” a familiar voice cried. She looked to find Lionel, or rather Michael, the actor who played that part, bearing down on her with another man in tow. “Dell, here’s Sarah Crowe, the playwright. Sarah, this is Delluth –” The rest of the introduction was drowned out by a burst of singing from the other side of the stage, but Sarah smiled her polite smile at the man all the same. He looked average and ordinary; well-dressed but not flamboyant, well-fed but not fat. Michael, boyishly handsome and cheerful, said into her ear, “He’s one of the theatre’s backers, but he doesn’t like any fuss about it.” Well-heeled, too, then, Sarah thought to herself. No troubles in his life, so he had to go looking for them by financing theatres. Then she met his eyes, brown and deep, the eyes of a man who had endured too much and put it behind him. She blinked, saw his gaze sharpen in an echo of her own surprise, and remembered to breathe. “Pleased to meet you.” “And I you,” he said, taking the hand she belatedly offered. “I was away last year and missed your first two plays, but Michael said I had to see this one. He was right.” His voice was lower than she expected, smooth and resonant. Like a cello, she thought. And a trace of an accent she didn’t quite recognize. “Thank you,” she said aloud. He still had her hand; she took it back, slowly, and ordered her pulse to stop racing. It ignored her. A trio of acquaintances approached, full of congratulations for herself and Michael. When they wandered off, taking Michael with them, she found that Delluth had seated himself on the floor beside her chair. “Michael says you do poetry and music, too,” he said, offering to refill her glass. “Michael says a lot,” she complained, watching the ruby wine pour out. “He is a talkative sort,” Delluth agreed dryly. “What do you do?” His hesitation was barely noticeable. “I study music, off and on,” he said. “I’ve tried my hand at writing it, but so far …” His rich voice trailed off, and he concentrated on refilling his own glass. He was shy about it, she realized, fascinated. “And that’s all?” Her tone was too critical, and she grimaced apologetically. Delluth shrugged. “In my other life, I’m a professor at the University. It pays the bills.” Then he smiled again, shaking his head at himself. “No, I enjoy it. The teaching and research, anyway. But it’s not enough.” “I … know what you mean,” Sarah said. “What do you teach?” “Pharmacology.” “I’m sorry, but that sounds awfully dull.” He laughed. “It could be. You just have to have the right attitude.” “Well. That’s true. Of anything.” She was leaning on the arm of the chair, tilted toward him. Such a short distance. His eyes promised things she could not dare to name. She stared into them, and that was dangerous, so dangerous, and she didn’t have time for this. The silence lengthened, grew into an island in the tumult of the party. Delluth’s free hand brushed her cheek, curved around the back of her neck, gently pressed her face toward his. She tasted him, felt his hand tremble, the quick breath he took. Too late, she pulled back. He let his hand fall to her arm, still laid along the chair’s. “I don’t do this,” she said, moving away to the other side of the chair. “I do,” he said, smiling sweetly. “But not very often.” She nearly laughed, a startled puff of air. “University professor?” she protested. His smile broadened. “We have private lives too.” “This is hardly private,” she pointed out, and staked all her willpower on that ground. Indeed, the scattering of people nearby were carefully not looking at them, and she read amusement in the set of their shoulders. Delluth stayed rooted beside her chair. Sarah refused to look at him, angling her head so the disordered mass of her jaw-length hair blocked any sidelong glance. No one mentioned the kiss when they spoke to either of them, but she could tell that a whisper about it had traveled through the crowd even faster than bad news might have done. He was not going to go away unless she insisted. She might even have to be rude. But how could she do that to a man who’d backed this theatre, and praised her work? Who could look at her as if he wanted nothing more in the universe than to be with her? The theatre’s manager started urging people to leave. It was time. She stood up quickly, started to walk away, then turned as if remembering him. He was already on his feet. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” she said, brisk and cool. If she focused on his uninspiring chin, rather than his eyes, there would be no problem. “The pleasure is mine,” he said, with the faintest thread of irony in his wonderful voice. “May I escort you, Miss Crowe?” He was offering his arm, and she took it. Briskly. With just a nod of thanks. They passed Michael, now arm in arm with his wife, Finola. He grinned and gave her a discreet thumb’s up, and they laughed when she scowled at him. But the two of them thought everyone ought to be happily married, or at least cohabiting. It was sickening, really. Delluth helped her into her wrap, and matched her rapid pace through the theatre’s back door into the autumn evening, up the alley, and along the street. Apparently he thought she was going to show him where she lived. She’d have to shed him at the next corner. The Quarter kept late hours; there were still quite a few people in the street. But the Quarter was also full of shadow-filled alcoves, and suddenly Delluth spun her into one of these, his arms lightly enclosing her. “Is this private enough?” he murmured. The answer caught in her throat somehow, and looking up towards him was a mistake, because he kissed her, long and deep, drawing her close against him. She found her arms going around him, her body leaning into his. He stopped for air, pressing his face against her hair and breathing deeply. “I don’t do this,” Sarah found voice to protest. “Because it doesn’t happen often?” Delluth asked. The thought stilled her effort to pull away. “It’s worth waiting for,” he whispered. “I promise.” She clutched at the back of his jacket, trying to reason. It wasn’t as if she never slept with men; she was prepared for the possibility. It was just so sudden. So ill-timed. So rare. His grip on her loosened, as if he half expected her to spurn the offer. She stepped back and caught his hands. “My –” She had to clear her throat. “My house is about four blocks away.” “Ah,” he said, and lifted her hands to kiss them. “Thank you.” (Continued ... privately.) |
