ArchivedLogs:Vignette - Enchanted
| Vignette - Enchanted | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2016-01-26 ' |
| Location
<NYC> Charity Gala Benefiting the Arts | |
“You have to admit the man makes sense. It might not be easy to swallow, but Peter Stepford makes sense,” a man speaks in a heavy French accent about American politics. A woman’s shrill laughter cuts through the ambient noise of the gallery. The New York socialite responsible for the unpleasant sound tosses her hair. Raising her cocktail up out of the way, the aging woman smooths her sheath dress, “/Oh, Benoit!/ You’re positively devilish! You know better than to talk politics at one of my events.” Pursing her lips, she smiles with her eyes and bats the hefty man by her side in playful reprimand. As younger woman passes, our socialite comes in to give her a half-hearted hug. Neither woman closes their eyes during the intimate embrace, rather they stare off into the distance. As if the interaction had never occurred, Mrs. Grayson resumes her conversation with the foreigner, “Surely, you already know who is receiving /our/ donation.” She winks, “Why sully the evening by discussing it.” The French entrepreneur lets out a hearty chuckle. He fingers a golden pinky ring as he brings up his tumbler to clink with the elegant Mrs. Grayson’s. “Oh, Benoit! There is someone you simply must meet!” Our socialite softly slaps the man’s designer suit once again. Pressing her snake-like body closer, she whispers something in his ear and exchanges a naughty, conspiratorial look with the man. Quite theatrically stepping aside, “Je vous presente, Nathaniel Sutler. Soloist under Rochelle, if you can believe it. Quite the enigma. Sweet Nathaniel, this is my dear friend Bonoit Coupe-Fourre, in from Paris.” Teague had been standing just off to the side for quite some time at the behest of the benefit’s hostess. Sharply dressed in a slender fitting suit, the dancer has forgone a sport coat and opted to leave his scarf to drape around the nape of his neck. He looks up with bored, sultry eyes and tips his martini glass in the French businessman’s direction, “Enchente.” “What did I tell you? Just your type,” Mrs. Grayson purrs quietly to Benoit, although she’s hardly whispering. Pursing her lips in another venomous smile, she sashays away from the pair. “{The pleasure is all mine. Is that Brunello Cucinelli?}” “Yes,” Teague appears hardly enchanted. The Londoner throws back the remainder of his martini, letting the man slip out of focus as he looks around the bustling art gallery for absolutely anyone else at all to speak to. Idly, two fingers find his temple under the arm of his fake glasses and rub there. | |
