Teruyo !Wo5j3FYZRg 2016/11/22 (Tue) 07:37 No. 192721 “You’re staring very intently at me, is something the matter?” she asks softly, her voice almost lost to the background noise. Typical of her, she is inquisitive and aloof. Cold, perhaps, if not for the short distance between you. It wasn’t usual for her to draw herself close to others. Her words were for you alone, that’s what your brain tells you. If it’s a delusion, it’s a sweet one.
“Nothing is the matter,” you tell her with a smile. “I’m glad to see you, that’s all.”
She scans your face with a well-guarded stare. As usual, you can’t tell what she’s thinking. Those dark eyes of hers seem to absorb all of your thoughts. A sly smile, something all too rare for her, forms on her lips as she reaches a conclusion. “And I am glad to see you,” she says with a nod, “I apologize for making you wait.”
“It’s alright, the important thing is that you’re here now,” you say, the more complex thoughts rattling around the back of your skull failing to translate into words.
Of course, that’s only natural.
Anyone would be having a hard time centering himself if he saw her as she was now: her plain and loose-fitting robes were nowhere to be seen. In there stead, she wore a dark dress, darker still than hue of her eyes and hair combined. It trapped the light like a full glass of aged wine, revealing its dark bordeaux nature as she moved through the ambient light, each one of her movements accentuating a figure that had, until then, been mostly the subject of your imagination. Though not much a decolletage was shown due to the dress’ higher cut, the fabric tightened around the chest and marked her curves before finally loosening up at around the knees into a less constricted and more flowing finish. The long dress would have turned your head even if you hadn’t been expecting to see her.
In a word, she was stunning.
And you aren’t the only one to notice. A look so universal that it’s difficult to misinterpret came from the other men in the room. They each asked themselves who was this long-haired beauty? And who was that lucky fool who was with her? You have to admit that it feels good to goad just a little bit.
Patchouli starts again, trying to qualify her apology, but you think it better to move on and go to your table. “Let’s sit so we can talk in peace,” you say with a wink, trying your best not to show just how far from earth your thoughts are.
You signal to one of the staff that you’re ready to be seated. The same waitress as earlier ushers you beyond the curtain. The main room is a respectably-sized rectangular hall with several tables spaced out between the wooden walls and a large window that dominates one end of the room. There’s a view to the park, though there’s not much to see in the dark of evening beyond the few torches the restaurant has set outside. It’s probably the largest single piece of glass in Gensokyo, too, made by someone who found themselves stranded in this land a few decades ago. As far as you know, the restaurant was originally a tavern of sorts. And the glass maker, the original owner, wanted it to be a place where either sunlight or moonlight would provide cheer to his patrons.
Your table is by a corner, snugly out for sight from most of the other diners. The restaurant is mostly full and staff exit and enter from the kitchen from the far wall to deliver food and wine. Soft music is being played – a violinist stands in another corner, playing a gentle melody. The candlelight is purposefully kept somewhat dim, so that each table become a private little island where people can forget everyone else. Patchouli sits opposite you and the waitress hands you a pair of menus, taking the time to talk about what’s freshest. It’s not very interesting but Patchouli accords her the quiet courtesy of hearing her out, occasionally nodding her head.
The waitress leaves you to read the menu and make up your mind. It’s only then that pangs of anxiety strike again. Somehow it seems so unreal to be sitting there – to have Patchouli just opposite you, dressed like she’s taking this date more seriously than you could have ever imagined. She still wore a golden crescent in her hair, though it was now a smaller pin worn to one side which served to keep her hair in place. It was odd to see her not wearing her cap but it induced in you greater appreciation for the fine silken strands of indigo hair. It was just that she was so casual about her appearance normally that seeing her in a new outfit, new light made her incredibly striking.
“You’re staring again,” she says coolly, betraying nothing of what she may have been really thinking. Even her lips were different – she wore a somewhat subdued shade of crimson lipstick. It, like the dark dress, contrasted well with her pale flesh and pronounced her more fleshy and soft bits quite remarkably if you stopped to think about it. But, staring was rude.
“Sorry, I’m just thinking about how lucky I am to have you here,” you say, doing your best not to scratch your head in awkward reflex. “You look absolutely beautiful tonight.”
“Thank you,” she replies with a nod, once again doing a good job of hiding her feelings. But she was not without heart. “It is actually why I was late,” she explains, looking down from the the menu at you with a casual glance, “I had to make a few last minute adjustments to my wardrobe.”
“They were worth the wait,” you say, long since forgetting the despair and anxiety that came from waiting by yourself. “It’s the first time I’ve seen you dressed up and if you were looking to make a good impression, mission accomplished,” you say lightly, trying not to dwell so much on the fact that you could die happy having seen her be so womanly.
“I’ll be sure to tell them that,” she says with a nod.
“’Them’?” you cock an eyebrow.
“Yes, when they learned of our rendezvous, they insisted I try several outfits before going out. I spent most of the afternoon being fussed over, forced to try this and that in order to make an impression on you. For whatever purpose.”
“Ah, so the others-?” you think about the others she could mean. That assistant of hers… and that nosy pair without anything better to do. “I see,” you nod, trying to keep your opinions of others to yourself.
“Personally, I’m not sure it was worth the effort. True lovers are content to know the soul of the other and aren’t too bothered by things like physical appearance,” she says, as if she were reciting a doctrine found on a page of a book. She had read aloud to you on occasion and found that her dispassion and analytical nature were upheld even during the most questionable of materials.
“I guess there’s some truth there,” you say, trying to keep up. Getting flustered won’t do you any good. “If you had shown up in your usually outfit, I still would have been happy to see you.”
“I’m sure,” she said, her eyes showing a queer light. Her words had an uncharacteristically mischievous edge to them, “but it hardly would have been acceptable for me to show up disheveled. And I have to admit the tightness around my chest feels somewhat stimulating; it’s like my breasts are being cupped gently and lovingly by the fabric.”
You try your best not to stare at her chest as she rotates her shoulders slightly. She smiles, though it is awkward, and it seems to you that maybe it was something she was coached to say. Those no-good others, no doubt. But, wait. You’ve never known Patchouli to seek advice, let alone follow the advice of others. Is she also-?
You smile back at her, trying not to show too many of your thoughts on your face. You feign interest in the menu, going through the various items briskly. Sake and noodles is more your speed; this restaurant with its outside world-inspired cuisine is a little daunting to process. Obviously, you need to pick out a wine. That much is obvious. But the other foods? Ossobuco and truffled sauces could be food from another planet entirely insofar you’re concerned. If Patchouli is at all concerned with her choices, she doesn’t show it. She takes a cue from you and reads the menu, studying things like she would any other text before her.
At last, you ask, “is there any sort of thing in particular you’re in the mood to eat?”
“No, nothing,” she forces a smile, “I’ve had my fill just by seeing you tonight.”
“I-”
Patchouli realizes the awkwardness of her statement almost immediately. “Sorry,” she says, “that’s the sort of thing that sounds better in your head after a full afternoon of being pressured.”
“It’s fine,” you tell her, “I think it might be for the best if we both just relax a little.”
“I agree,” she says, her expression relaxing into a more blank and inscrutable state.
Some of the blame for the tension is undoubtedly the circumstances around this date. It’s more than just a simple date. There’s some history here.
[] Your mutual friends thought it’d be a good idea to prod you two along, since you were both the quiet shy type, and so they orchestrated this date.
[] After spending a long time trying to learn magic from her, you made her promise to indulge for an evening if you could learn to cast that spell.
Patchouli coughs quietly into her napkin. “Things on the menu sound appetizing but I wonder how good it could really be. I’m afraid I haven’t tried anything outside of the mansion’s kitchen for quite some time.”
[] You’d never been here before but the food was surely to be good – it was the most popular restaurant in the village for a reason.
[] The food was good, your cousin worked the kitchen. You both learned to cook together and the only reason you didn’t offer to make her a home-cooked meal was the fear that you were coming on too strong.
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Please choose one from each. And, also, please no write in votes for this story. I’m keeping to a structure that will make sense to you later.
