alpacinou
Key Member
- Joined
- Sep 30, 2019
- Member Type
- Interested in Language
- Native Language
- Persian
- Home Country
- Iran
- Current Location
- Iran
Is this correct and natural?
The last rays of sunlight were fading behind the Hollywood hills as the day vanished. From her balcony, Patricia looked at the city's nightlife beginning slowly. She stepped back to the living room. In a dim corner of the mansion a half-full bottle of scotch rested on a mahogany table. She decided to drink through the infertile moments, the barren evening. Nick was sleeping like a corpse on their fifteen-grand Chesterfield as she poured a shot. She lifted the glass towards Nick. "To another day in our beautiful marriage," she said to the silent room, feeling the warm glow of the liquor loosening her. She sat at the grand Piano opposite from Nick, tuning it slowly. The fire of whiskey surging through her, Patricia began moving her fingers with fluid grace. The music bordered between solemn and joyful. Ambiguous notes rose from the Piano, filling their house. Jubilation and despair seesawed inside her through the whiskey as a smile flickered across her face, dying away slowly as her brows furrowed and her face crumpled. She felt pent-up tears trickling down, wetting the keyboard.
Nick tossed on the couch, blinking until his confused eyes met Patricia's. "What time is it?" he asked. "Are you crying?" he said with a hoarse voice. Fighting the heroin in his blood, he pushed himself to his feet. "Miss Patricia DiNatale. I ain't wooed by your melodies or your pretend vulnerability. Your tears are fake, and your sadness is fake and your music," he said walking towards the bathroom.
"Another speech from a man who takes solace in hurting others," said Patricia shaking her head. "You know something Mr Nick Smith? You are not good at hurting me anymore." She looked down at her ring. It was as if the diamond had lost its shine. We weren't like this. Maybe I should have left him sooner before it came down to this. Like an athlete retiring on top.
The last rays of sunlight were fading behind the Hollywood hills as the day vanished. From her balcony, Patricia looked at the city's nightlife beginning slowly. She stepped back to the living room. In a dim corner of the mansion a half-full bottle of scotch rested on a mahogany table. She decided to drink through the infertile moments, the barren evening. Nick was sleeping like a corpse on their fifteen-grand Chesterfield as she poured a shot. She lifted the glass towards Nick. "To another day in our beautiful marriage," she said to the silent room, feeling the warm glow of the liquor loosening her. She sat at the grand Piano opposite from Nick, tuning it slowly. The fire of whiskey surging through her, Patricia began moving her fingers with fluid grace. The music bordered between solemn and joyful. Ambiguous notes rose from the Piano, filling their house. Jubilation and despair seesawed inside her through the whiskey as a smile flickered across her face, dying away slowly as her brows furrowed and her face crumpled. She felt pent-up tears trickling down, wetting the keyboard.
Nick tossed on the couch, blinking until his confused eyes met Patricia's. "What time is it?" he asked. "Are you crying?" he said with a hoarse voice. Fighting the heroin in his blood, he pushed himself to his feet. "Miss Patricia DiNatale. I ain't wooed by your melodies or your pretend vulnerability. Your tears are fake, and your sadness is fake and your music," he said walking towards the bathroom.
"Another speech from a man who takes solace in hurting others," said Patricia shaking her head. "You know something Mr Nick Smith? You are not good at hurting me anymore." She looked down at her ring. It was as if the diamond had lost its shine. We weren't like this. Maybe I should have left him sooner before it came down to this. Like an athlete retiring on top.