loneliness on the long road home || mlm, wlw

French 75

Leon hurried down the slight decline of Mavery Avenue, over rumpled pathways disrupted by the roots of uncontrollable trees, past a few inky black buggies, breath coming out in great puffs; despite the darkness settling over the street, he was never one to dawdle on the account of being spotted by someone he knew from the University, which would be painstakingly terrible. Any other night it would be fine, if not a bore if it was one of his older colleagues (charming in their own elderly right, and highly capable in whatever field they taught, but utterly painful when it came to small talk), but absolutely not on his nights out. To where he was headed, he was dressed rather casually, in a cream suit, tailored snugly to his figure, beneath a long billowing coat - in camel, of course, with furred lapels - a loose collared shirt (no tie; it got too hot for that), smart black-and-white leather wingtips - his favourite. The only thing making him stick out like a sore thumb, that made him walk briskly past clusters of people along the fairly busy cobbled sidepath, was the makeup, the jewellery. Not much, just rouge on his cheekbones (which was a much-needed addition to his otherwise paper-like complexion, but more on that later), a smokiness to his eyes, emeralds dangling from his earlobes like dewdrops, a string of pearls imported in from somewhere further east, hanging at his collarbones, a few elegant rings on a forefinger and pinky - but enough to cause double-takes and a few hollers, if he was lucky. He wasn't ashamed, per se, of what he wore, it was just sometimes a little bit embarrassing being so blatantly singled off by the public. At a lingering glance, it was obvious he was different.

The end of Mavery Avenue was in sight, his cue to look out for Derry Lane, a tiny little crevice between gigantic, looming townhouses and shop fronts, right before the grandest building of all. He slipped into the darkness, traveling deeper along garbage cans and strings of laundry high above, criss-crosses of iron stairwells hanging off the buildings. Before long, he came across a door, veiled by a tiny brick roof and oil lantern, inconspicuous enough, if not for the woman in a simple boiler's overalls, leaning against it with a long, expensive cigarette holder in hand, cigarette puffing along with big clouds of smoke in the cold. Her skin was a dark olive, reflecting, quite beautifully, the golden flowers in her ears, the ring looped through her nose, and the delicate gold chain around her neck. Her hair, black in the dim light but that Leon knew was a rich auburn, was pinned up in what was once an immaculate hairstyle but had since begun to fall down in airy waves.

"Yes?" she drawled lazily, much more interested in her cigarette than at Leon's arrival. He knew for a fact that she had just started her long stint out here; it was already 10:30. Much rather, she would liked to have been inside still partying with the customers, but it was Friday, and she always did Friday nights.

"Forty-one pinecones on the wall might tumble down with a strong wind."

At his voice, she looked up, and her cheeks pulled back in a warm smile. They had always regarded each other with sincerity; Leon was a professor of social history, and Chantin was extremely well-read on topics such as the Mughal Empire, the Gorkha Kingdom, the overthrowal of the Phagmodrupa Dynasty by the Tsangpa Dynasty, of which Leon himself was rusty on, and a little on the decline of Ming China. Many conversations had been shared talking of their academic interests - but Leon was surprised to learn she had never been to school.

"What a pleasure it is to see you," she said, in that slow drawn-out voice of hers, as if she was in no rush at all. A string with a bauble end dangled beside her, waving softly in the cool air, that she gave a forceful tug.

"Evening, my lady." They shared a laugh, hers a sharp bark.

Chantin stepped away from the door, twisted the rusting brass doorknob ridged like a pumpkin, and let it open into a long hallway lit with low red lights. The two shared a nod and quickly Leon was ducking inside, down one stone step, the door being shut with a creaking ache behind him. Through this low, cramped hallway lit by bulbs of red glass, he soon reached another door, this one larger, arched, encased behind patterns of flowery wrought iron. Music, as if from a distant room, slipped through the tight gaps between door and doorframe.