Louis de Pointe du Lac (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
beautyofthenight) wrote2024-06-02 03:27 pm
beautyofthenight) wrote2024-06-02 03:27 pm
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Dated Wednesday, May 29th
The nights had finally turned warm.
In the past few weeks, the cool of the evenings finally made way for summer’s emergence. Granted, the warmth of Darrow was nothing compared to the cusp of summer in New Orleans: to heat that broke into late afternoon thunderstorms, the air so heavy you could feel it the second you set foot outside.
I missed it.
Or maybe it wasn’t the city itself I missed, but the people I’d left behind.
Most times, I tried not to think of it. But some nights… a dress in a shop window, a few notes of a piano dancing on the night air… my mind was never far from Claudia or Lestat, though it had been months since I’d seen either of them. I had passing thoughts of whether our fragile household had weathered without me there– if the two of them went their separate ways, or if the pot that had been simmering ever since Lestat came back into our lives had finally boiled over for good.
The business of the streets at night these days help to take my mind off of it. I spent those nights exploring, observing, building up a collection of books that hadn’t been conceived of where I came from.
There was a cafe not far from the park. I liked to pick a table on the patio and read, ordering a cup of coffee I knew I’d never drink.
The night it happened, I was halfway through a book of poetry – the author came off self-important and overwrought– a couple at the only other occupied table. I could hear their blood pounding, hot and full of longing. To call it distracting would be an understatement. For a moment, I wasn’t sure if I was jealous of them or if I longed to drain them one at a time.
How do I get him out of here? What if someone sees?
If he going to ask me back to his place or what?
I steadied myself, closed my book and threw a couple of dollars on the table for the waitress, content to go to coffin early that evening.
That was when I saw it. The flier.
Lestat de Lioncourt.
I couldn’t focus on anything else there. Not the date and time, the circumstances that made that flier necessary. Lestat.
Lestat.
Lestat.
Here. Saturday night.
Time stood still. Suddenly, nothing else mattered. And suddenly everything did.
In the past few weeks, the cool of the evenings finally made way for summer’s emergence. Granted, the warmth of Darrow was nothing compared to the cusp of summer in New Orleans: to heat that broke into late afternoon thunderstorms, the air so heavy you could feel it the second you set foot outside.
I missed it.
Or maybe it wasn’t the city itself I missed, but the people I’d left behind.
Most times, I tried not to think of it. But some nights… a dress in a shop window, a few notes of a piano dancing on the night air… my mind was never far from Claudia or Lestat, though it had been months since I’d seen either of them. I had passing thoughts of whether our fragile household had weathered without me there– if the two of them went their separate ways, or if the pot that had been simmering ever since Lestat came back into our lives had finally boiled over for good.
The business of the streets at night these days help to take my mind off of it. I spent those nights exploring, observing, building up a collection of books that hadn’t been conceived of where I came from.
There was a cafe not far from the park. I liked to pick a table on the patio and read, ordering a cup of coffee I knew I’d never drink.
The night it happened, I was halfway through a book of poetry – the author came off self-important and overwrought– a couple at the only other occupied table. I could hear their blood pounding, hot and full of longing. To call it distracting would be an understatement. For a moment, I wasn’t sure if I was jealous of them or if I longed to drain them one at a time.
How do I get him out of here? What if someone sees?
If he going to ask me back to his place or what?
I steadied myself, closed my book and threw a couple of dollars on the table for the waitress, content to go to coffin early that evening.
That was when I saw it. The flier.
Lestat de Lioncourt.
I couldn’t focus on anything else there. Not the date and time, the circumstances that made that flier necessary. Lestat.
Lestat.
Lestat.
Here. Saturday night.
Time stood still. Suddenly, nothing else mattered. And suddenly everything did.