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"And what is this sad thing?" Cleo drawled, a smile on her tongue as she extended her arm out of the closet.Upon her finger hung a floral frock, thick and frayed in more parts than not. "It looks like those poor girls I see at work. Though more sturdy of course."
Beth sat at the desk, a half worked chess board in front of her, a cigarette hanging from her lips, two shades of lipstick staining it, "It was my mothers. Haven't had the heart to through it out."
"hm," the arm retreated slowly, she heard the minute sound of a hanger being put back in place. She turned back to the board, and moved the queen rook to 8d.
" Don't tell me you are replaying that match with Benny again. Did you not beat him enough?" A chuckle followed, then a small noise of disappointment. A dress was thrown onto the bed, soon to be trashed.
"He had an opening, thought I would have learned better by now."
"Is it not more fun when they can't see what you can? Give him five more, he wouldn't win one of them."
"I didn't see the opening until he told me."
"For one who hates to dwell on past matches, you do it quite often, no?"
"You learn most from past mistakes. Even, if you wish you never made them." She sighed, checking the White king.
"Yes. And then you claim you never made them." Cleo said, walking out and plucking the cigarette from her, finishing it in a single drag before snuffing it out and sauntering to the balcony. " I'll leave in the morning, I've been stuck here too long."
"I have a tournament in Italy, I can leave early if you want a seat in first class."
"Hmm, a tempting offer, but Mexico has been calling my name. I'll stay for the summer, however long that is."
Beth frozen, the black bishop hovering somewhere between 4c and 3b. She tilted her head, seeing Cleo leaning over the railing, breathing in Paris and all it is like it was a cigar. She set the bishop at 2a, checking the white king again.
"I've heard they're tequila is of high quality. It would be good to share drinks with stupid men and vapid women."
"Have fun." Her voice was strained, but not enough for Cleo to notice, the woman was too busy dancing her fingers across the railing.
"You should join me, once this little tournament is over, a celebration for your victory."
She wonders if the french woman knows anything, even if she hasn't said it. they're talks tend to be of opinions and emotion, of sad stories and grand pianos. There's no time to mention the small things, like how many steps she took until she turned back or an old frock that smells like smoke and martinis and static.
"Maybe." She responds, the white king surrenders, she stands up to go throw away the small pile of clothing on the bed, shutting the closet. Cleo has turned back, closed the doors and found the cigarettes for them both.