Sit for tea, fiction

Upon deciding, I entered the salon.

Did I see paintings, and muted, leather, high-back chairs or was it just my imagination? I had dreamt of a room just like the one sought after in Gertrude Stein's home. Riddled with airs of the avant garde speaking of colorful musings both eager and bohemian. Snapped into the moment literally by my host, I caught sight of her disapproving my woolgathering. I collected myself and closed my gaping mouth.

The room was actually quite sparse in decor, and rather dim for the middle of the day. I smoothed the wrinkles in my skirt while Ms. Clotilde drew the curtains inward, shutting out the pale light completely. My eyes adjusted once more, and my mouth grew dry. I had been invited to sit with Ms. Clotilde for the afternoon as a way for my father to find an excuse to speak with Mr. Georges about his business prospects. I was often obliged to play the part as my duty to my father. To sit and engage with the lady of the house while the men spoke of business behind closed doors. Already I could see that Ms. Clotilde was underwhelmed with me. Did she ask me if I desired something to eat? A cup of tea perhaps? No. I wasn't exactly thrilled to be in her company either. And yet she hadn't stopped looking at me since I walked in the room. Her gaze was outright and peculiar as though she could not know what to make of me. So I asked outright and curious, 'What are you looking at?'
She responded slowly that I reminded her of someone she once knew. Vague and biased already, I thought tracing the edge of my sleeve with my fingertips. Her answer intrigued me like the smell of burnt scones on an empty stomach.