Categories > Movies > Newsies > Dance In the City
This story was inspired by the Renoir painting entitled "Dance in the City." The painting, created in 1883, details a couple, the woman's back to the viewer, dancing in what appears to be some kind of building mansion with marble walls. Renoir is, of course, a famous french Impressionist associated most often with Monet, Sisley, and Bazille, and is perhaps most well-known for his painting "Luncheon of the Boating Party."/
A/N: I don't own Newsies etc.
This is technically a dream--not nessecarily prediciting the future though; the real story starts with the next chapter.
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Dance in the City
I
Snapshots
Sometimes life is taken in snapshots: a laugh, a feeling, the rustle of fabric against skin, the curve of a shoulder, a hand on his knee, white itchy gloves, flowers in her hair, the water dripping through the roof, her legs wrapped around him, a pillow hitting him in the head . . . .
The sound of glasses clinking brought his attention to her. Her laugh kept his attention, and allowed it to ponder on certain aspects of her person, such as the way she licked her lips when she was nervous, or the way her hand rested lightly on his shoulder.
Her breasts rubbed against his shirt, and the rustle of taffeta dragged his attention away from her eyes to her neckline. The bones protruded slightly as she laughed, and her breasts pressed more heavily into him.
"Why, darlin' I don't think we should do this . . ." she laughed.
He smiled. "Dat's what ya always say, dear."
"Has it evah stopped ya?"
He shook his head, his suite suddenly becoming suffocating. "Nah."
She laughed again, her voice flitting on the air like the wind, so light he wasn't sure if it was real. He twirled her around and around the dance floor, the glass floors reflecting pools of light that was supposed to be them . . . he focused on their reflections, thinking: she's more beautiful than that.
There was a flower in her hair, nestled among the brown curls like a bouquet. He kissed her neck and her pulse quickened; he loved it when he made her pulse quicken.
. . .
She was lying next to him, heat beating off of her warm body. "You said ya weren't goin' to do it . . ."
"I know."
"But . . . ya did do it."
"I know."
Her eyes were sparkling like the stars, her leg laying across his.
"So ya lied ta me."
"Yeah, I did."
She pushed away from him abruptly, and stood up. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she looked down at him, her face a mixture of regret and hurt, her cheeks red and shiny, like a porcelain doll.
"I'se gotta go."
And she left.
. . .
This feeling, he thought. What is it? Is it pain? Is it hurt? Is it a broken heart? Is it death?
It is grief, he thought. A twisted, burning heat in his chest; a feeling of anxiousness; his hands shaking.
He needed a cigarette. A cigarette would make everything better. She started with a cigarette; she'll end with a cigarette.
The cigarette was shaking in his lips, and he drew in a ragged breath. He let the smoke fill his lungs, but it did nothing to calm him. He was sitting on his bed, and he was alone.
. . .
The odds had been irrelevant, for the first time in his life. He had her; he wasn't going to lose her.
But somehow . . . for some reason . . . she was gone.
. . .
He laid in his bed, puffing on a cigar, staring at the wooden bottom of the bunk above him, and he was alone.
. . .
TBC
A/N: I don't own Newsies etc.
This is technically a dream--not nessecarily prediciting the future though; the real story starts with the next chapter.
-
Dance in the City
I
Snapshots
Sometimes life is taken in snapshots: a laugh, a feeling, the rustle of fabric against skin, the curve of a shoulder, a hand on his knee, white itchy gloves, flowers in her hair, the water dripping through the roof, her legs wrapped around him, a pillow hitting him in the head . . . .
The sound of glasses clinking brought his attention to her. Her laugh kept his attention, and allowed it to ponder on certain aspects of her person, such as the way she licked her lips when she was nervous, or the way her hand rested lightly on his shoulder.
Her breasts rubbed against his shirt, and the rustle of taffeta dragged his attention away from her eyes to her neckline. The bones protruded slightly as she laughed, and her breasts pressed more heavily into him.
"Why, darlin' I don't think we should do this . . ." she laughed.
He smiled. "Dat's what ya always say, dear."
"Has it evah stopped ya?"
He shook his head, his suite suddenly becoming suffocating. "Nah."
She laughed again, her voice flitting on the air like the wind, so light he wasn't sure if it was real. He twirled her around and around the dance floor, the glass floors reflecting pools of light that was supposed to be them . . . he focused on their reflections, thinking: she's more beautiful than that.
There was a flower in her hair, nestled among the brown curls like a bouquet. He kissed her neck and her pulse quickened; he loved it when he made her pulse quicken.
. . .
She was lying next to him, heat beating off of her warm body. "You said ya weren't goin' to do it . . ."
"I know."
"But . . . ya did do it."
"I know."
Her eyes were sparkling like the stars, her leg laying across his.
"So ya lied ta me."
"Yeah, I did."
She pushed away from him abruptly, and stood up. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she looked down at him, her face a mixture of regret and hurt, her cheeks red and shiny, like a porcelain doll.
"I'se gotta go."
And she left.
. . .
This feeling, he thought. What is it? Is it pain? Is it hurt? Is it a broken heart? Is it death?
It is grief, he thought. A twisted, burning heat in his chest; a feeling of anxiousness; his hands shaking.
He needed a cigarette. A cigarette would make everything better. She started with a cigarette; she'll end with a cigarette.
The cigarette was shaking in his lips, and he drew in a ragged breath. He let the smoke fill his lungs, but it did nothing to calm him. He was sitting on his bed, and he was alone.
. . .
The odds had been irrelevant, for the first time in his life. He had her; he wasn't going to lose her.
But somehow . . . for some reason . . . she was gone.
. . .
He laid in his bed, puffing on a cigar, staring at the wooden bottom of the bunk above him, and he was alone.
. . .
TBC
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