[ The party — the thrall of people — draws Ada like lamplight draws a moth. She doesn't stay one place long, instead flitting from place to place (light source to light source) carrying a flute of champagne (hardly touched, although you'd never tell — but that's the way Ada is all of the time, with lazy lashes and soft tones) in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Her footfall mimics that of her namesake: light and heavy at the same time, and it's this footfall that carries her to Hadley.
It isn't, it should be noted, something that happens on purpose. There's a thump on his door; the thump of a shoulder hitting the barrier, and a small oh to accompany it. (Her feet had crossed over each other as she walked and so —)
There's a pause, then, as she stays leaning against the door, eyes tracking up from the doorknob to the number plaque, another moment passing as she connects number to name. ]
Hadley?
[ She draws out the last y, tone creeping up, the name half to herself and half to the man she suspects is somewhere behind the door. (She never sees him at parties, anyway, and she doesn't think he's been eaten, yet.) ]
no subject
It isn't, it should be noted, something that happens on purpose. There's a thump on his door; the thump of a shoulder hitting the barrier, and a small oh to accompany it. (Her feet had crossed over each other as she walked and so —)
There's a pause, then, as she stays leaning against the door, eyes tracking up from the doorknob to the number plaque, another moment passing as she connects number to name. ]
Hadley?
[ She draws out the last y, tone creeping up, the name half to herself and half to the man she suspects is somewhere behind the door. (She never sees him at parties, anyway, and she doesn't think he's been eaten, yet.) ]