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alexwritesit · 6 months

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The Gentleman in Red

In the whispered echoes of a gala night, I linger on memories of an enigmatic gentleman in red, our exchange a dance of flirtation, his invitation a siren's call, weaving a tale of allure and uncharted desires.

“Good evening,” I offered, my smile a well-practiced facade, the glass of champagne catching the soft glow of the room. My words, laced with a feigned interest, floated towards the cluster of guests. “Are you enjoying the event?” The query, a mere formality, barely concealed my profound ennui.

As if rehearsed, their responses chimed in unison, “Of course, it’s marvelous! Have you sampled the cake? The exquisite cuisine? The wine?” Their voices, a cacophony of eagerness, seemed to dance around me, each syllable dripping with the unspoken desire to weave connections.

The music, a solitary redeeming feature, filled the air with a vivacity that contrasted sharply with the undercurrent of superficiality. The chandeliers, dimmed to a soft, golden hue, cast a gentle light over the scene, their glow reflected in the lively bubbles of my champagne. I brought the glass to my lips, the effervescence teasing my tongue before giving way to the familiar, underwhelming taste.

In this grand charade, every smile, every gesture was a calculated move in a game of unspoken alliances and veiled intentions, set against the backdrop of an evening that promised much yet delivered little more than gilded emptiness.

Each time an invitation landed in my hands, adorned with the words “To our distinguished…”, my eyes couldn’t help but roll in silent cynicism. Despite the reluctance that gnawed at me, I found myself accepting these invitations, knowing full well the predictability that awaited. The events, regardless of their veneer of exclusivity, were always populated by the same faces – familiar smiles, tired camaraderie, each interaction a thinly veiled attempt to curry favor. The gatherings were a tableau of old men accompanied either by their wives or conspicuously younger companions. The monotony of it all was stifling.

Lifting the champagne to my lips once more, I welcomed the brief respite its effervescence provided from the stagnant air of pretense. Yet, even this small pleasure was marred by the lackluster flavor of the drink – a disappointment that mirrored the event itself.

The dance floor, now opened, presented a scene that might have been captivating to a newcomer. Elegant dresses and sharply tailored suits graced the figures of those who moved across it, their attire speaking of a fashion that was just a step ahead of the current trends. The younger attendees, mostly ‘plus-ones’, gravitated towards the dance floor with an enthusiasm that contrasted sharply with the more seasoned attendees. These younger guests frolicked to the orchestra’s tunes, their movements light and carefree.

In stark contrast, the older couples seemed almost anchored to their tables, confined within their select social circles. They engaged little, their interactions limited and guarded. The divide was palpable – the vibrancy of youth on the dance floor, the entrenched solemnity of the older guests at their tables – each group ensconced in their own worlds, separated by unspoken yet deeply ingrained social norms.

The waiter, a silent sentinel amidst the sea of revelry, approached me with a tray of champagne glasses. Each glass sparkled with the promise of effervescence, a fleeting allure. His gaze, though fixed on me, seemed to pierce through to some distant point, devoid of genuine interest. It was a reminder that, like me, he was merely playing a role in this grand charade – he to serve, I to partake, both of us bound by the unspoken rules of this gilded masquerade.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, almost mechanically, exchanging my empty glass for a full one. My eyes lingered on the waiter as he weaved his way through the tables with an effortless grace. His form was a study in physical perfection, each movement fluid and poised, reminiscent of a river carving its path with serene certainty. There was a certain elegance in his simplicity, a stark contrast to the ostentatious display that surrounded us.

Was there a tinge of envy in my observation? Perhaps. In his motion, there was an authenticity that this room, with all its finery and forced gaiety, sorely lacked.

I raised the glass to my lips once more, the initial fizz of the champagne giving way all too quickly to the familiar taste of disappointment – a fitting metaphor for the evening. The bubbles, like so many things in this setting, promised much but delivered little, mirroring the hollow exchanges and superficial smiles that filled the room.

“Where’s your plus one?”

The voice that cut through the din of the crowd held a resonance that tugged at the edges of memory. It was a sound both distant and intimately familiar, like an echo from another time. I turned, my gaze settling on the source: there she stood, a glass of champagne in hand. The liquid inside was a paradox in itself, half full or half empty depending on one’s perspective, much like the expressions that played across her features – a mixture of distaste and amusement.

“I don’t have one,” I responded, my words succinct, free of the usual pretenses.

Her reaction was theatrical, an exaggerated gasp that held no true surprise, only a flair for the dramatic. “Oh, I’ll enjoy this night then,” she declared, a playful chuckle escaping her lips as she brought the glass to her lips. The taste of the champagne, bland as it was, didn’t seem to diminish her spirit.

“Yeah, yeah. Savour the moment,” I replied, a hint of dry humor in my tone. Her presence, an unexpected deviation in the night’s monotonous proceedings, brought a certain liveliness, a spark of genuine interaction amidst the sea of feigned pleasantries. In a setting where authenticity was as scarce as a nuanced flavor in our champagne, her candor was a refreshing, if slightly jarring, interlude.

“How come you came?” she inquired, a hint of curiosity lacing her tone. “Thought last time you said you wouldn’t accept the next invite.”

“I am too much of a nice person to deny an invitation,” I retorted, my response laced with a touch of irony. Catching her raised eyebrow, I conceded, “Fine, I was bored.”

“Ah,” she chuckled, the sound rich with understanding. “I’m here on official business.”

“Aren’t we all?” I quipped, a playful edge to my words.

“Darling, I meant another kind of official business,” she clarified, her voice tinged with a mysterious undertone.

“Oh!” I feigned surprise, playing along with the intrigue. “Who’s the guy?”

Her gesture directed my attention to a youngish man holding court at the center table. His appearance was noteworthy in its completeness – a full head of hair, a perfect set of teeth – and his charm was evident even from a distance. His smile, radiant and seemingly reserved for those he held in high esteem, briefly found her in the crowd. He waved, a gesture of cordial invitation that seemed to light up his entire demeanor.

“That is my call, Darling,” she announced, a playful seriousness in your tone. Turning to face me, she added with a wink, “Don’t be a bore, however. Find yourself a nice looking waiter,” and then, like a whisper in the wind, she was gone, melting into the sea of people before I could muster a reply.

Left to my own devices, I leaned back against the wall, my gaze once again sweeping over the room. The orchestra played on, a backdrop to the rhythmic dance of people and conversations. The tables, a landscape of culinary delights and sparkling drinks, were tended to by waiters in crisp white and black, moving with an elegance that was almost balletic. They navigated the room with an effortless grace, their presence adding a subtle yet undeniable charm to the evening.

Her parting words echoed in my mind, a teasing challenge amidst the tedium. Perhaps there was merit in the suggestion – a diversion, however fleeting, from the predictable narrative of the night. The waiters, undeniably attractive in their uniformity, offered a visual respite from the dreariness of the event. And so, with a newfound sense of curiosity, I began to entertain the possibility of engaging in this little game, a private amusement in an otherwise dull affair.

The gala’s opulence and grandeur, once alluring, had begun to wear thin, casting a sheen of tedium over the evening. Despite a fleeting, tantalizing thought of spending the night in the company of one of the handsome waiters—a notion both scandalous and thrilling—I shook the idea from my mind. Clutching my champagne glass, I made my way towards the exit, eager to escape the stifling atmosphere of the event. The constant hum of conversations and the clinking of glasses had become overwhelming, a cacophony that seemed to amplify the gala’s inherent rigidity.

As I passed the bar, the bartenders acknowledged me with a simple nod, a silent greeting that felt refreshingly straightforward compared to the evening’s pretenses. Pushing open the doors, I stepped out into the back streets of the venue, finding solace in the night’s embrace.

The air outside was a sharp contrast to the stuffy interior I had left behind. It was fresh and crisp, carrying the unmistakable hint of winter on its breath. The chill was a welcome relief, a natural reprieve that seemed to cleanse the palate of the evening’s excesses. The back street, surprisingly tidy for such a space, was dotted with only a few dumpsters tucked away in a far corner, a thoughtful consideration by the venue’s management.

I found a quiet spot amidst several chairs and small tables arranged near the doors. Setting my champagne glass on the table, I sank into the chair, allowing myself to be enveloped by the serene stillness of the night. Here, away from the gala’s forced gaiety and superficial chatter, I could finally breathe, the cool air filling my lungs with a sense of liberation. The quiet of the back street was a stark contrast to the orchestrated liveliness inside, offering a moment of introspection and calm amidst an evening of orchestrated excess.

Fumbling through my pockets, I sought out the pack of cigarettes I reserved for nights like this – those rare moments when the weight of the world seemed to demand a smoky reprieve. I wasn’t a habitual smoker, but some battles, as fate would have it, seemed more bearable with a cigarette in hand. Unearthing the packet, I found a lone cigarette lying within, its solitary presence a reminder to replenish my stock.

Placing the cigarette between my lips, I began the hunt for a lighter. My fingers patted down each pocket – front, back, inner, outer – in a growing crescendo of frustration. But my search was in vain; not a single lighter or even a match graced my attire.

“God- Fuck!” I exclaimed, the irritation spilling out into the quiet back street.

At that moment, an unfamiliar voice cut through the air, “Lack a flame?” The doors clicked shut, and my gaze shifted towards the sound. There, emerging from the shadows, was a figure like no other.

He was clad in a striking red suit, its fabric reminiscent of the velvety petals of roses, a vibrant contrast against the muted backdrop of the night. Gold gleamed around his neck, a necklace studded with diamonds catching the faint light, while pearls adorned his wrists. The buttons of his suit were intricately embroidered with silver, adding to his lavish appearance.

His presence was commanding, almost otherworldly. It was as if I had encountered the devil himself – not a figure of fear, but of temptation, an alluring vision in red and gold. The elegance and extravagance of his attire, coupled with the timing of his appearance, lent an air of surrealism to the moment. Here, in the quiet solitude of the back street, stood a man who seemed to embody both the allure and the danger of a forbidden fruit, a mysterious stranger offering a flame in more ways than one.

Caught off guard by the sudden appearance of this enigmatic stranger, my words faltered, “I, uh, yes.” For a moment, I stood there with my mouth agape, the forgotten cigarette still perched between my lips. Realizing the potential disaster, I quickly closed my mouth, securing the cigarette – which suddenly seemed as precious as gold – from tumbling to the damp, unclean ground.

The man’s movements were a spectacle of grace and poise, utterly captivating. His hands, meticulously groomed and elegant, delved into the pocket of his resplendent red suit, emerging with a lighter. The lighter, too, was red, a perfect complement to his attire. He extended it towards me, his gesture fluid and deliberate.

In that moment, I found myself momentarily paralyzed, spellbound by the sheer presence of the man before me. My usual, mundane task of lighting a cigarette seemed to elude me, as if his aura had momentarily disrupted my basic motor functions. It was the sudden gust of wind that snapped me back to reality, a natural intervention that saved me from the brink of embarrassment.

Gratefully, I reached out, taking the lighter from his hand. The flicker of the flame brought a sense of normalcy back, a reminder of the simple action I was about to perform. I lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply, the smoke providing a much-needed anchor to the surreal situation unfolding in this quiet back street. The presence of this stranger, with his striking attire and captivating aura, had transformed an ordinary moment into something akin to a scene from a vivid, almost otherworldly narrative.

The man took a seat opposite me, his movements fluid and assured. As I indulged in the rare pleasure of the cigarette, my eyes briefly met his. They were a deep, rich brown, reminiscent of the finest African blackwood – dark, intricate, seemingly carved to hold depths of secrets and untold desires.

“What brings you outside?” I asked, curiosity lacing my tone.

“I couldn’t stand the people inside. Thought the rats would be better company,” he replied, his voice smooth, imbued with a honeyed timbre. His response elicited a chuckle from me, a spontaneous reaction to his unexpected candor. I leaned back into my chair, releasing a plume of smoke into the cool night air.

For a brief moment, the surreal quality of the situation gave rise to a question in my mind: Is this a dream? “I guess we’re alike. Do you smoke?” I inquired, trying to maintain a semblance of conversation.

“No, don’t worry,” he assured me.

“Ah, good then, you shouldn’t,” I advised, almost instinctively.

His eyebrow arched, a gesture that seemed to accentuate the enigmatic aura surrounding him. His lips, compelling in their expressiveness, curved into a soft, knowing smile. “Shouldn’t you heed your own advice?” he asked, his voice as warm and inviting as a gentle fire.

I let out a light, self-aware chuckle. “Maybe, but I guess it’s too late for me.” My words were tinged with a hint of resignation, acknowledging the small vices that we clutch onto, even when we know better.

The silence that settled between us was one of those rare, comfortable voids, filled with the ambient sounds of the night. The faint scurrying of rats in the distance, mingling with the muffled strains of music seeping through the windows and cracks of the gala, lent an otherworldly feel to the moment. It was surreal, at least from my perspective. But what about him? What did he think, feel?

Stealing a glance his way, I found myself captivated again. His eyes held the depth of the cosmos, stars and nebulas yet to be explored, secrets begging to be unveiled. There was an undeniable allure about him, a magnetic pull that stirred a desire within me to claim his attention, if only for the duration of the night. In his presence, the notion of him being a devil, albeit one not of sinister nature, seemed almost plausible.

“Is something on my face?” His voice broke through my thoughts, his gaze meeting mine.

“Oh,” I found myself momentarily at a loss for words, scrambling for a coherent response. “No, I just spaced out, I’m sorry.” My reply was an awkward attempt to brush off my apparent staring, a feeble effort to mask the intrigue and attraction that had momentarily rendered me speechless.

My curiosity piqued, I ventured to ask, “What brings you to the gala?” The words eased out of me, breaking through my initial stiffness. Yet, a chill momentarily grazed my spine, a physical reaction to the accelerating beat of my heart each time his gaze met mine.

He paused, considering his response, then let out a chuckle. “I was invited,” he said with an air of playful obviousness. His demeanor shifted slightly as he leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table and his head in his palm, a casual pose that somehow accentuated his enigmatic charm. “Every year I’m invited, yet this is the first time I came.”

“Oh, you as well?” I replied, finding a common thread in our experiences.

“Yup. They’re all a bore,” he said, his tone carrying a hint of dramatization, yet underlined with a sincerity that resonated with my own feelings about these events.

“I always come, unsure why,” I confessed, taking a sip of the now lukewarm champagne in an attempt to steady my nerves. “It’s always the same faces, the same stories, and there I am, sitting in the corner, nursing bland champagne.”

He looked at me, his expression a mix of amusement and a shared sense of mockery. His eyes flickered briefly to the glass in my hand, then back to me as I took another drag of the cigarette. “Oh, poor you,” he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm yet sweet as honey. “I guess it was a better choice that I came this time.”

“Oh?” I queried, a hint of flirtation edging into my tone. Was he flirting with me? Should I play along? As I met his gaze, a fire ignited within me, my thoughts veering towards realms far removed from the decorum of the gala. And somehow, I sensed he was aware of this unspoken tension.

“It seems the music is dying down,” he remarked, subtly changing the subject. Yet his gaze held mine a second longer than necessary, a fleeting lapse in his otherwise composed demeanor. In that moment, I found myself yearning to close the distance between us, to taste the mystery that he embodied.

“It is…” I responded, my voice trailing off. “The main event should start soon.”

His offer hung in the air, a tangible invitation, as he slowly stood and extended his hand towards me, holding the door open in a gesture that was both courteous and inviting. The simplicity of the act contrasted with the complexity of emotions it stirred within me.

“I-…” My initial hesitation was a brief skirmish between caution and desire, a momentary pause in the unfolding narrative of the night. “Sure,” I found myself saying, the word escaping as a mix of acquiescence and anticipation. I carefully discarded the cigarette, extinguishing it beneath my foot, a symbolic end to one indulgence as I prepared to embrace another.

Taking his hand, I felt a jolt of excitement, an electric connection that seemed to transcend the ordinary. His appearance, devilishly charming and enigmatic, had captivated me from the moment he appeared. And now, as I accepted his invitation, a part of me acknowledged a deeper truth: He may look like a devil, but God knows I want him.

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