(no subject)

[kiss-my-jazz.livejournal.com]

Danny Boodman T. D. Lemon 1900 the Greatest [and Largely Ignored by His Mun] is in the bar. Rather suddenly, as usual, arriving as a few notes of music you might hear if you're not listening to anything but your mind, and a bright movement you might see in the corner of your eye if you're not looking at anything but your daydreams. He stretches his arms out, wanders over to the bar, and orders a glass of orange juice.

Come chat with the pianist. He's entirely too friendly for his own good.

Comments

[teach-them-all.livejournal.com]

Sitting nearby is a tall, lean woman in a very elegant, if fairly severe black dress. Her icy blue eyes stare into the distance as she sips a cup of hot tea. Little expression on her angular face.

She pays the pianist no mind.

[kiss-my-jazz.livejournal.com]

1900 finishes his juice and scans the crowd. Spotting a potential audience, he slips from his stool and wanders over to her.

"Good afternoon," he greets her with a polite little bow.

[teach-them-all.livejournal.com]

Turning her blue eyes to him, she simply watches him carefully. Her crystalline voice cold. A thin finger tapped lightly on the side of the tea cup.

"Afternoon to you as well, Child."

[kiss-my-jazz.livejournal.com]

"I couldn't help but notice how elegant the lady looks, yet in such a place as this! It's barely fitting," he simpers, slipping into the role of the musician of the First Class ballroom. "I wondered if you would care for some music?"

[teach-them-all.livejournal.com]

The lady gives the musician a slightly disdainful look. She held an air of superiority about her with ease.

"I will consider your comments a compliment, and not an affront."

A sip of tea.

"You may play if you desire."

[kiss-my-jazz.livejournal.com]

He's used to people with superiority. All things considered, he figures himself to be probably somewhere around the rock-bottom of the hierarchy of EVERYTHING. And frankly, it doesn't bother him at all.

He walks purposefully to the piano, sits, and without hesitation begins to play. The music he makes for her is a reflection -- elegant, a slow rise and a quick fall, graceful and fluttering, DELIBERATE, regal, and yet... here and there... a smattering of minor notes, almost cacophonous, although as the song proceeds it is quite clear the song would not be itself if they were absent.

[teach-them-all.livejournal.com]

Mesaana sips her tea. Calmly, carefully, and says nothing. Her clear blue eyes staring into the flames.