NOTE: I WROTE THIS A YEAR AGO BEFORE THE 2013 FILM CAME OUT, INTENDING IT TO BE LONG AND COMPLETE. HOWEVER I COMPLETELY FORGOT ABOUT IT AND I APOLOGISE TO THE NEW INFLUX OF PEOPLE READING THIS. I MAY ONE DAY CONTINUE BUT DON'T GET YOUR HOPES UP PLEASE!

THANKS FOR CLICKING ANYWAY :)

-Nick has just returned from Gatsby's party in Chapter 3

I was quite glad when i was able to take my leave from the party. I found the excess and the revelling quite oppressive and I felt throughly tired.

However, I wished I could have stayed and talked to The mysterus host for a while longer. That smile had truely drawn me in. I made me feel as if it held all the secrets and answers in the world, as if Gatsby was somehow the centre of the universe, yet at the same time it made one feel like Gatsby, the master of all creation, had nothing more pressing on his mind than to talk to you and only you.

This majestic spell was broken when he and Jordan slid off into a side room and I felt the faint and unfamiliar pang of jelously that that winning smile would no longer be aimed in my direction.

Gatsby was so imaculatly presented too. He shone out from the crowd of the crazed drunken mass as a man who was well kept and had his head firmly on. I was attracted to this sort of sensible attitude. His appearence was also so neat and orderly. Except for one small strand of hair that had escaped the scheduled grooming and had escape forward onto his forhead. It had peeved me ever so slightly the whole time and I had wanted so badly to sweep it out off his handsome face, so that it no longer disturbed my view of his intense, searching eyes.

Whoa Nick, slow down there, I scolded myself. Those sort of uncontrolled thoughts could be interpreted as affection. I had only known the man five minutes, yet he seemed to have affected me deeply. There was something about his manner that drew you in and I felt marginally disappointed that I hadn't got to spend more time with him.

I unbuttoned my suit and drew my feet over to the window. The bright lights of next door we toning down slightly and the music and chatter was less obtrusive. I leaned out into the cool night air and a figure on the steps caugth my eye.

Just by the shadow, cast by the atrificial lights, which plastered itself acrossthe front of the mock-French house, I could see it was Gatsby. Even with just the blurry monochrome image, one could see the grace and poise he held himself with and the outline of his figure was enough to see the shape of his body. Not aggressivly muscular, like Tom Buchanans, but subtly athletic and held by its owner in an elegant stance.

Gatsby seemed to look around at his domain for a minute, before turning towards the door and leaving me out in the cold. I followed him with my eyes until he could be followed by them no more and he escaped my vision. But he did not escape my thoughts, which lead my to wistfully dream of following him inside, just to see that winning smile flashed in my direction again.

The confusion of Gatsby intoxicating effect and the glass of champagne I had drunk that evening sent me sheepishly to bed and that night I had a strange dream involving lemon juicing. However, I faintly recall that in this night fantasy, a handsome man with a comsuming smile was watching me with a look of admiration on his face.