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whiskey in your water // sugar in your tea {open}
Jan 13, 2024 21:15:22 GMT -5
Post by august vance d7b [Bella] on Jan 13, 2024 21:15:22 GMT -5
WRENbeckett
Wren’s hand trembled ever-so-slightly as she pulled the curtain aside, stepping into the big dance tent. Music thrummed in waves that she could feel vibrating in her ribcage. Pum, pum, pum.
Eager to get away from the stables, she’d finished her few hours of work in a hurry and barely had time to shower before throwing on a decent dress, a little blue denim number that fell just past her knees. She just hoped she’d scrubbed enough of the dirt out of her fingernails—after work, it seemed to stick in every nook and cranny where the light didn’t shine. Her wheat-colored hair fell softly against her shoulders, and she twirled the ends of it, a little nervous, while she watched the growing crowd.
The dance floor pulsed with people in the dim lamplight, and all seemed to have pretty good rhythm save for a few stragglers who seemed to miss the beat every now and then. On a small stage perched above the floor, there was a bluegrass band strumming their ensemble of stringed contraptions, a drummer in the back thumping a bass drum. Wren had been a little unsure about coming here alone, but she could feel the music starting to unwind her nerves, and thought maybe a little bit of liquor would fix the rest. Making her way to the bar, she gently pushed through a line of people to lean against the counter.
”Vodka cranberry, please.” Wren had never tried one, never tried much drink to begin with, but she loved the way it sounded sweet yet sophisticated. When the bartender asked for what she thought was an arm and a leg, she forked it out of her dress pocket reluctantly. Is that really what people spent on these things? That was a few hours’ pay, but then again, this was kind of a special occasion. She wasn’t sure what they were doing this for, exactly—some mayoral candidate was throwing a party to get elected, maybe—but she had heard about it at school, and the promise of a live band was too tempting to pass up.
Just one drink, and then maybe I’ll dance. Wren found an empty table near the dance floor and took one of its chairs. Legs crossed at the ankle, she sipped her drink—which she thought was absolutely delicious—bouncing one foot to the music and wondering why they made beverages with two tiny straws like this. Maybe so they would last longer, or so it would look cuter when you drank it?
Wren wasn’t quite sure what she wanted from tonight—to hear, to dance, to be seen in her pretty dress, maybe. Suddenly she wished she had told one of her siblings to come too, so she would have someone to ease her into the mass of strangers. But no, today she was a grown lady, out here on her own. As she watched the feet stomping, legs swinging, bodies swaying along to the music, she felt herself becoming a little hypnotized by it all. The energy from the dance was so contagious, she even started to smile, but didn’t dare move from her seat.
Wren’s hand trembled ever-so-slightly as she pulled the curtain aside, stepping into the big dance tent. Music thrummed in waves that she could feel vibrating in her ribcage. Pum, pum, pum.
Eager to get away from the stables, she’d finished her few hours of work in a hurry and barely had time to shower before throwing on a decent dress, a little blue denim number that fell just past her knees. She just hoped she’d scrubbed enough of the dirt out of her fingernails—after work, it seemed to stick in every nook and cranny where the light didn’t shine. Her wheat-colored hair fell softly against her shoulders, and she twirled the ends of it, a little nervous, while she watched the growing crowd.
The dance floor pulsed with people in the dim lamplight, and all seemed to have pretty good rhythm save for a few stragglers who seemed to miss the beat every now and then. On a small stage perched above the floor, there was a bluegrass band strumming their ensemble of stringed contraptions, a drummer in the back thumping a bass drum. Wren had been a little unsure about coming here alone, but she could feel the music starting to unwind her nerves, and thought maybe a little bit of liquor would fix the rest. Making her way to the bar, she gently pushed through a line of people to lean against the counter.
”Vodka cranberry, please.” Wren had never tried one, never tried much drink to begin with, but she loved the way it sounded sweet yet sophisticated. When the bartender asked for what she thought was an arm and a leg, she forked it out of her dress pocket reluctantly. Is that really what people spent on these things? That was a few hours’ pay, but then again, this was kind of a special occasion. She wasn’t sure what they were doing this for, exactly—some mayoral candidate was throwing a party to get elected, maybe—but she had heard about it at school, and the promise of a live band was too tempting to pass up.
Just one drink, and then maybe I’ll dance. Wren found an empty table near the dance floor and took one of its chairs. Legs crossed at the ankle, she sipped her drink—which she thought was absolutely delicious—bouncing one foot to the music and wondering why they made beverages with two tiny straws like this. Maybe so they would last longer, or so it would look cuter when you drank it?
Wren wasn’t quite sure what she wanted from tonight—to hear, to dance, to be seen in her pretty dress, maybe. Suddenly she wished she had told one of her siblings to come too, so she would have someone to ease her into the mass of strangers. But no, today she was a grown lady, out here on her own. As she watched the feet stomping, legs swinging, bodies swaying along to the music, she felt herself becoming a little hypnotized by it all. The energy from the dance was so contagious, she even started to smile, but didn’t dare move from her seat.
