Authors Note- Hey, y'all! I hope you enjoy this! It's based on the prompt from the Open Novella Contest and I had a lot of fun writing it!
Prompt: "This is our last dance, my dear." "Then make it our best."
The honeymoon suites of Sacher were overbooked, a plethora of tender love and hope filling its gates. It was the final ball of the season after all, with its ball gowns, sweetheart couples, and pretentious guests. For the Duval's though, it was the pinnacle of their love story, the fernweh of their souls leading them to the city of dreams. It was tradition to have every dance like their first, even if it would be their last. So they were here, in Austria, to sway the night away one more time.
They had booked out the 6th floor of the auberge for the occasion. It was partly for all of the deja vu, and partly because it was Bette's favorite number. With an abendrot slowly flooding the horizon, the clock rushed them inside to hastily slip into tightly knit apparel from the modiste, with Bette applying red maquillage to her lips to woo and Dion courting her with roses hanging from his fingertips.
Staring at them was almost pitiful for everyone else. They were old - definitely in their late 50's - but their essence was ever so young. Both were walking their pasts, a mix of heartbreak, anger, disdain, love, romance, and happiness brushing into their auras. It was a tragedy to watch them. To see how her arms perfectly fit in the crevice of his; to see how he'd kiss her hand before taking it; to see how he'd carry her when the heels caused calluses on her feet. To see a golden arch around them, but to see that it wasn't all perfect, to see that the arch wasn't complete. To see how Bette's eyes reeked of a lackluster oddity, and to see the lies spinning under her skin was the reason it hurt.
The smaller hand of the lobby's clock moved over to seven, inciting a rush of shapes out of the hotel lobby. The Duvals came down the two-way staircase, surprising each other with a final cherry on top. (For this year at least.)
Bette was wearing a flirty red dress, fitted to her waist, and riding down to her upper thigh. It was simple, yet beautiful. She'd paired it with a pair of diamond-studded earrings that hung to her shoulder. A red pouch roped her fingertips, along with a black cardigan around her elbows. Dion on the other hand wore a black suit with a dainty tie, a pair of silver cufflinks from their 2nd anniversary on his shirt. He'd sprayed on the complimentary hotel cologne and parted his hair down the middle.
Taking her hand, he left a delicate kiss laced with oenomel on Bette's lips, placing her gloved metacarpals onto his elbow, and gestured for a bellboy to get the keys to his Bel-Air (another gift for the Mrs).
The petrichor of the freshly manicured lawns drew her in infinitely, clotting her thoughts while her husband started the car. He opened the door for her wandering eyes, pushing her into the seat, before closing it on her dress. Bette didn't care enough to fix it.
They were off, the ambiance of their hotel disappearing into the darkness. It helped that Mrs. Duval always hated the sun out, her soul plagued with the tendencies of a nyctophile because the only word she could plausibly use to describe the city at this time of day was perfection. The air was foggy, with leftover dewdrops hanging around the air. The wind blew enough to ruffle a few strands of her perfectly placed bun, the red locks falling out of place.
"I'm lucky to have you, darling," he muttered, brushing a hand onto Bette's thigh while keeping his eyes on the road.
"And I'm blessed for you," she responded, taking that hand and kissing it, clutching it to her chest.
Watching as the street vendors placed platters in front of people, as the old men wagered their bets on futile games of chess, as night slowly seeped into this city, she reminisced. It all just took her back to the letters, to the secretive glances, to the lies, the mistakes, the abductions. It took her back to her first love.
Bette laid her head gingerly onto Dion's thigh, choking back the slow-moving pool of tears starting to fill her eyes. The past was now the present, and every line was blurred out. Fuck, it was blissful overdrive.
"Do you remember the first night?"
"Like it was yesterday."
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
"Your eyes say it all."
"Shut up."
"How long?"
"It was frivolous. I'm married now. Let it go. It was clandestine, an affair. I could go to jail for god's sake."
"It was a first though."
"Please just shut up."
"We do this every time."
"Again, just shut up. And it isn't every time."
"It's every time. On this date. On this drive. I've kept track."
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
"Do you still love her?"
"Do I look like I ever stopped?"
.
The car ride to the ballroom was bumpy, to say the least. There was a jam on Ringstrasse and some first-time drivers filling the streets. Plopping out of the car, Bette took a moment to steady herself.
It was tempting to stroll around the breathtaking garden, so they did. Hand-in-hand, the xyst accompanied them, cold air rushing into their faces. Dion kissed her around every cornerstone, every rock skipped into the river, with every word she tried to utter.
"You're going to have to stop kissing me Mr. Duval, my lips are already numb," Bette said, ruffling through his tousled hair.
"Mmm, I could. Or I could continue to kiss you and get red lipstick painted on the side of your cheeks," he whispered through another kiss. "I choose option B, Mrs. Duval," he added.
Taking his fingertips, she visually rolled her eyes before walking into the Liechtenstein palace, handing the usher her tickets before stepping into the anteroom. Dion followed shortly, just popping his coat onto the rack beside the live band. They picked at their baroque instruments, playing Chopin, Beethoven, Bach, Mozart, and possibly everything you'd hear at a ball.
The only thing calming Bette's nerves and her desire to come entirely clean about every possible thing was the fact that there was an open bar tucked away at the corner of the foyer. Pacing towards it, she left the rest of the ball behind her.
The tapster was pouring out shots of whiskey, multiple glasses starting to accost her. She was already three drinks down, with no dance or even words exchanged with anyone. God, whiskey made her maudlin.
"Maybe you should take that a little slow hun," the man spoke. He had a towel draped over his shoulder, taps filling at the countertop.
"It masks the pain," she retorted, picking up a glass of A. E Dor.
"And what pain could a lady like you have?" He adds, placing a coaster down on the table.
"Reminiscence of an old love. The fact that I'm lying through my teeth to my husband. I'm in Vienna and drowning my body in alcohol so yeah, there is pain," she snickered.
"Heavy feelings aren't my best suit, but I don't think unrequited love is a reason to binge drink," the man continued, giving her a glass of water.
"Oh no, it was requited. Just illicit," Bette whispered, taking that water to go.
"That's part of the fun, isn't it?" He posed the question, going back to the glasses. Those words chimed through her head.
The ball was grander than ever this year. The Duvals had been here every year-the night of their wedding-to dance and fall in love all over again, but this was something that they have never seen before. They went all out, leaving opulence to the imagination. The blips of humans walking across the marbled floor only added to that elegance.
Bette furtively eyed the decor, ruminating on the awful choice of silver next to gold in the curtains. Dion brushed up slowly behind her, fixing a few ruffles on her red bodycon. He whispered in her ear, broaching the shore of meeting some of the other couples. She put her glass down on one of the side tables because time to check another tradition of the list - painful small talk.
Moving across the floor, they met families from all over the world. The stories were peculiar, to say at the least. Some spent their entire life savings to be here, some were subtly hitting on the two of them, and some were incredibly dull, talking about their favorite philosophers from Greece.
"...Mr. Stein, thank you for the adulates, but I look like every other woman on the floor tonight," Bette said, shrugging off the excessive compliments.
"No, I assure you, Señora, you are one of a kind. He is a lucky man," Mr. Stein answered, pointing towards Dion.
Polite laughter filled the air between the two.
"Is he seriously hitting on me right now, love?" Bette asked, muting her voice out to Dion.
"I'd say yes, and I think more than me, his wife isn't happy about the subtle adultery either," Dion laughed, giving the couple a cordial nod before moving away.
"The whiskey has gotten to my bladder so I must leave before I pee over this dance floor," Bette muttered, excusing herself, and going into the restroom.
"I'll try not to die here," Dion called out, letting her hand go.
Taking a kiss on the cheek from him, she asked the waiter for directions to the bathroom, following the signs plastered on the palace walls She pulled her dress down, rushing into one of the open stalls. Flushing the toilet seat, she came back outside to wash her hands.
For the first time that night, Bette truly looked at herself in the ornate mirror. She looked at the outfit on her skin, her flushed cheeks, the smudge of red lipstick at the rims of her lips, the lattice of the strings on her hips, the taste of whiskey on her tongue, and even the way her bun was getting undone. The reflection pushed her younger self out, to the first night, to the fact that she wore red then too.
.
"Hi! I'm Bette. Who are you?"
"My name is Cleo. What are you doing here?"
"First of all you were too beautiful not for me to say a thing, and I sing with the band without my parents knowing."
"A rebel. I like you already."
"I was hoping for that. Care for me to buy you a drink?"
"I'm already down three shots of tequila, but honestly, why not?"
"Can we get some vodka here, please?"
.
Returning to wash her hands, she tried to remember exactly what Cleo wore the night they met. It was something promiscuous, white, and oozing with passion. It was simple, paired with pink gloss, and a tinge of some eyeliner. She looked like heaven, and it was still so vivid in Bette's memory.
.
"So, what brings you here Cleo?"
"I'm a runaway. My parents lived in France and were the most pretentious people I've met, so I got a ticket for a ship to New York and came here."
"Another rebel. We'll get along just fine ma'am."
"I could hope for nothing more."
"Perfect."
.
Bette reapplied the lipstick to her lips, giving a pretense to the rest of the women's restroom that she was wholly okay. That she wasn't yearning to be back in that bar in New York. Reliving it would be hell, but it was hell worth being in.
Another lady joined her next to the vanity, and she was wearing a white dress. Bette chuckled to herself about the coincidence before going back to look at herself in the mirror. But her eyes flickered back to the woman, lips suddenly agape. Her face tried to hide the expletive words pooling in her mouth. She went cold, deathly pale.
"She's here? She's alive?"
Bette was already tearing up.
"She died in New York, though. When they found out. She couldn't be here"
Her mascara was running.
"That isn't possible. This could be a lookalike. Wipe the tears."
A napkin was under her lash line.
"You're just hallucinating, don't worry."
Another laugh escaped Bette's lips.
"Coincidences, right?"
"Cleo!" A voice outside called.
"Fuck."
Fuck.
Word Count- 2053 words