Femme Noir

[myvalentina]

MyValentina and @mcther


It's L.A. in the 1940s. Crime runs rampant, and to be a mobsters wife means you've got to be elegant, beautiful, obedient, and quiet.


Whether acknowledged or not, only the smartest women last longer then the calendar models hanging on the walls. Two women find themselves in the midst of it all, looking for allies and maybe something more.

 

[mcther]

The men leave, but the smell of their cigars, their cologne, and the faint musky, soured scent of their sweating bodies that the cologne was meant to disguise hangs heavy in the air; pregnant as a rain cloud. That's what Frances hates most about them, she thinks, sulking quietly by the window and nursing a cigarette, no matter how far or long gone her husband and his "partners" may be, their absence is just as heavy, just as cloying and demanding as their presence.


Orangey streetlight bounces off rain-slicked roads and the glow is liable to make her pensive which, in her current company is a potential vulnerability she cannot afford. So, Frances pushes herself away from the wall with a small groan meant to draw the attention of her forced companion.


Keeping the other in her peripheral vision as she crosses smartly to the liquor cabinet. Retrieving her pack where it lay beside the heavy cut glass bottles full of brandy, scotch, whiskey, any and all forms of liquid relief. A long drag as she turns around, the smile that splays like a happy hand of cards across her impeccably dolled face smug for the sake of show.


In truth the other woman frightens her, on some base level. Years of keen observation had led her to the conclusion that Lucy was keenly observing right along with her. While Frances milks the small-town bimbo routine for all it's worth, Lucy's found her own niche. Frances has to hand it to her. Pretending not to speak the language is pure genius. She is simply scared this genius surpasses her own.


"You want a cigarette, Lucy?" She offers the pack and steps forward, boring into the other with an intensity that contradicts her smile. "Or maybe a glass of brandy?" She speaks quickly, none of the slowness, or loudness with which people usually address her. Frances intends to let the other woman know -- I've been watching closer than you have.

 

[myvalentina]

Lucero stands tall in her heels, cause she ain't got legs to spare like other women. And she doesn't relax for a bit even when her husband and his partners leave. She keeps near the door, listening for the sounds of departing cars that waft all the way up here through thin plaster and shoddy carpentry.


When all that's left is the familiar off-step of the night guard, she turns fully into the room, finally acknowledging the other woman.


The woman, Frances, is talking but she hasn't been listening, doesn't think the woman has much to say until she's met with a pack of cigarettes and the woman's calculating glare. She lifts her elegant eyebrow and huffs a short laugh.


"No." Is all she says, placing the least amount of inflection or accent on the word, so that it rolls off her tongue like a tease. What the woman thinks she knows, is nowhere near the truth.


Can't be...


So Lucy hides her insecurities further behind the impassive facade of blank misunderstanding that has served her well thus far.