> -----Original Message-----
> From: Melinda Martin [mailto:mariannia@...]


> Mariel wandered in from another room in the House, > taking a seat at the
bar. She smiled at the other > people here, feeling a tad bit lonely. But
who
> wouldn't feel lonely in her place?
>
> She fingered the envelope that she had been handed the > night before,
stroking it with one blood-red lacquered > talon before turning her very
pretty purple eyes to > one of the gentlemen sitting at the table. She had
> high hopes that one of them would respond, as she > clicked her nails on
the marble countertop, her > leather skirt creeping up her fishnet covered
thighs, > contrasting with the porcelain skin underneath that > shows
through in gaping amounts.
>
> She shuddered > delicately still appraising the gentlemen, wondering >
which of them would get up the courage to come and > speak with her, claim
her....

V. couldn't help but notice this pale woman with her impossible eyes, which
surprised him. It wasn't that she obviously wanted to be seen, oh no, that
was not what surprised him. Her entrance had parted the silence in the room
like a faux pas, giving pause to even the always quick with a
drink-and-a-smile bartender. Not her outfit, calculated to catch the eye,
the id, the occasional loose bit of attention; fashion had little effect on
V. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the effort and the pageantry so much
as he didn't quite get it. He knew that there were reasons why one outfit
was better than another, reasons like leaves which turned with the seasons,
but there was never a woman so perfect to him as when she was freshly
showered and fast asleep. Unadorned, naked, honest. So the artful drapes
and lacquers did not draw him, nor the violence with which she struggled to
free herself from her seat. No, it was those stunningly vulnerable eyes.

V. had never seen natural eyes of her color, although he knew that they
could be purchased many places. But he had seen the way they looked before,
the way they looked when they looked at you and through you and past you,
looking for the answers you didn't have. Her eyes were lost, searching,
seeking something they were missing, and V. knew that look intimately.

As she stared out the window, gazing at the frost he did not feel, V.
retrieved an envelop she had left behind and approached the woman.
Hesitantly, he reached for her shoulder, willing her to turn those eyes to
him again.

> She > heard someone walking up behind her, and felt arms > touch her from
behind. She turned to see one of the > gentlemen there, holding the letter
that she had left > at the bar.

"Excuse me," he said, "but I just had to see."

The question that now framed Mariel's expression left V. fumbling for
something to say that didn't sound like the ramblings of a child. "I'm
sorry... my name is Verloren. You left this at the bar."

--------
Verloren