Mesnyi
as the sun goes down
don't know what I'd do without
my golden one
don't know what I'd do without
my golden one
N
obody tries to touch her. That’s a good sign, she thinks, though it isn’t always telling of the nature of those she is to sleep beside…but the basic respect, or fear, - perhaps fear that they will break her, or stop her, and she will never dance again - that is always good to see. Of course, the Benevolent dance skin to skin with anyone, but these are not Benevolent and she is not home. The road has done its whispering for now; she has traveled and now she dances somewhere new. A golden mare slithers between onlookers, notes sliding serpentine from the violin in response. Mesnyi smiles sweetly as a golden coin crosses her, winking. More than one stranger beside this mare appear to think it is directed at them. The lavender mare drifts towards Bexley, silks floating around her as if underwater, brushing against the golden mare’s chest and drawing away, back to the center, to the next person to throw a coin.
For some time she continues this way, offering no more special attentions to the mare but watching her always. Mesnyi recognizes that hunger better than anything, and, frankly, the men aren’t looking so hot tonight. If she must, she will. Such is the way of those who dance for a roof.
Sweat beads on lilac flesh; Mesnyi elects to take a break with a bow. ”The dance will resume in a moment, but one must drink.” Her silks flutter flirtatiously at the audience, the dancer graciously accepting a bottle of wine from an onlooker. She offers him a bit of conversation in exchange, but her gaze wanders to the golden girl here and there, trailing up the canyon of her scar and back to the chattering man. He has little to say of interest but so much of it to spew. Mesnyi floats from the painful situation with a tickle of her silk and a grin. She finds Bexley.
”Benevolent write songs about scars like that,” she says. ”’On women like you,’ I could add, but we know the minds of men, don’t we?” She winks and sips her wine, offering it to the stranger. ”I am Mesnyi. Might I ask your name, golden one?”
"You see, women are like fires, like flames. Some women are like candles, bright and friendly. Some are like single sparks, or embers, like fireflies for chasing on summer nights. Some are like campfires, all light and heat for a night and willing to be left after. Some women are like hearthfires, not much to look at but underneath they are all warm red coal that burns a long, long while."
![[Image: 26y3cfu.png]](https://i.imgur.com/26y3cfu.png)
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