Post by mae on Aug 12, 2009 14:37:50 GMT -5
Doors opened for her, she was so beautiful. Crowds parted and lights flickered and people gasped, she was so beautiful. They recognized her from Voguè Itàlià and asked her to autograph copies of her Chanel No. 9 ads. She was graceful and fierce and dark, alien compared to the soft and subtle indie home-kint girls that littered the Pacific Northwest. Everything about her was razor-sharp, from the dead-straight black hair that covered her back to the double-edged smirk she wore walking through the doors. Her shoes clicked and her purple gaze was empty behind the flashy Aviators.
Her father was dead and her baby sister was broken, and honestly, behind the tension in her smile, Mae had all but faded away. Her heart ceased to beat and sleep became as neglected as food, but unlike her blonde counterpart, her fair-haired sister, Mae had no choice but to keep up appearances; you gotta be rich to be insane. losing your mind is not a luxury for the middle class. Work paid enough, but she needed every cent, and since heroin chic went out the window in the Nineties, it was fashionable these days for everyone to like their model's happy. And so she wore her smile brighter than ever, kept her chin up and bought too many shoes on Rodeo Drive. But she also picked up smoking again, started drinking too much coffee,she had to wear extra foundation to smooth out the bags under her eyes. In her last photo shoot, the photographer had scrapped all the swimsuits because you could see her ribs whenever she stretched and her pupils were inky black and saucer-sized with some kind of narcotic.
The girl was literally falling apart at the seams, but it was the encouragement of a few that kept her tied together for now. There was Rae, who's heavy accent scratched out enough reasons to smile over their infrequent but lengthy phone calls, and Jules, the yipping bundle of love that she had found abandoned in the alley beside her apartment; and there was Dorian.
Dorian Wilde, that charming bastard. Their relationship or routine or bad habit, their whatever, had become something addictive and almost necessary; and as much as Mae hated to admit it, it wasn't just because of the sex. They had catapulted off the wrong foot, chased each other for all the wrong reasons - he needed a rebound, a revenge fuck, and she needed to remind her baby sister what a cruel world this was - and still, months later, she couldn't shake him. Elliot had brought them together, been both their common bond and motive, and yet, the younger girl had - save for Dorian's occasional and dangerous drinking binges - faded almost completely into the background. They orbited around each other these days purely for the other, the curvy blonde having become nothing more than a quiet joke that they could share in rare strong moments.
They met for dinner in the bar of her hotel or in some back-street diner to avoid the photographers, and his smile would somehow look more wolfish than hers in the dim light as he would ask how she had been in the two or six or eight weeks they had been apart. She would laugh and ask if he had missed her, which was always a yes, even though he never said it, and somewhere after the apple pie or their last beer, they would disappear to her room or his car* or a broom closet if it was close enough.
They weren't exclusive, as far as she knew, and there was the occasional dark-eyed photographer or French club rat that caught her attention and her affections for a night or two, but truthfully Mae wasn't in much of a state to flirt, and it was just worlds easier to settle into something comfortable. Tonight was no different. They were meeting at the Dahlia Lounge, in a private room away from prying eyes, and the air smelled like Seattle rain, dark chocolate and votive candles. She was wearing jeans as the waiter lead her to the table, and she didn't bother to remove her sunglasses as she picked up the menu that she surely wouldn't order from. She was restless, heavy with jet-lag and heartache and withdrawal, and despite her usual ardent love for the Dahlia, Mae already couldn't to get out.
Her father was dead and her baby sister was broken, and honestly, behind the tension in her smile, Mae had all but faded away. Her heart ceased to beat and sleep became as neglected as food, but unlike her blonde counterpart, her fair-haired sister, Mae had no choice but to keep up appearances; you gotta be rich to be insane. losing your mind is not a luxury for the middle class. Work paid enough, but she needed every cent, and since heroin chic went out the window in the Nineties, it was fashionable these days for everyone to like their model's happy. And so she wore her smile brighter than ever, kept her chin up and bought too many shoes on Rodeo Drive. But she also picked up smoking again, started drinking too much coffee,she had to wear extra foundation to smooth out the bags under her eyes. In her last photo shoot, the photographer had scrapped all the swimsuits because you could see her ribs whenever she stretched and her pupils were inky black and saucer-sized with some kind of narcotic.
The girl was literally falling apart at the seams, but it was the encouragement of a few that kept her tied together for now. There was Rae, who's heavy accent scratched out enough reasons to smile over their infrequent but lengthy phone calls, and Jules, the yipping bundle of love that she had found abandoned in the alley beside her apartment; and there was Dorian.
Dorian Wilde, that charming bastard. Their relationship or routine or bad habit, their whatever, had become something addictive and almost necessary; and as much as Mae hated to admit it, it wasn't just because of the sex. They had catapulted off the wrong foot, chased each other for all the wrong reasons - he needed a rebound, a revenge fuck, and she needed to remind her baby sister what a cruel world this was - and still, months later, she couldn't shake him. Elliot had brought them together, been both their common bond and motive, and yet, the younger girl had - save for Dorian's occasional and dangerous drinking binges - faded almost completely into the background. They orbited around each other these days purely for the other, the curvy blonde having become nothing more than a quiet joke that they could share in rare strong moments.
They met for dinner in the bar of her hotel or in some back-street diner to avoid the photographers, and his smile would somehow look more wolfish than hers in the dim light as he would ask how she had been in the two or six or eight weeks they had been apart. She would laugh and ask if he had missed her, which was always a yes, even though he never said it, and somewhere after the apple pie or their last beer, they would disappear to her room or his car* or a broom closet if it was close enough.
They weren't exclusive, as far as she knew, and there was the occasional dark-eyed photographer or French club rat that caught her attention and her affections for a night or two, but truthfully Mae wasn't in much of a state to flirt, and it was just worlds easier to settle into something comfortable. Tonight was no different. They were meeting at the Dahlia Lounge, in a private room away from prying eyes, and the air smelled like Seattle rain, dark chocolate and votive candles. She was wearing jeans as the waiter lead her to the table, and she didn't bother to remove her sunglasses as she picked up the menu that she surely wouldn't order from. She was restless, heavy with jet-lag and heartache and withdrawal, and despite her usual ardent love for the Dahlia, Mae already couldn't to get out.
