The Writer

Imagine her, all auburn bobbed and full bangs and fair skin. Her tiny frame covered by a sartorial dress with black appliqués and genuine pearls, often mistaken of that of a child of pubescence, gliding fast yet gracefully like a sweet swift of a mermaid as she made her way out of a car to the lobby of a building she called her heavenly high house.

Flashes of cameras followed her, probably of the media, enveloping the rest of her physical being with their blinding lights. Dark sunglasses shielded her unseen droopy sleepless eyes. 

It was the divorce. 

People flocked to witness the spectacle of her almost perfect showmanship of hidden despair and hopelessness, beguiling them with her educated charms and aptly attitude. Her ‘no comment’ remarks fueled their interests more than expected. Tabloids feasted and then fed the readers articles about her divorce details, the rumored philandering of her husband, a successful business person and a son of long time family friend, her stiffness and heart of stone, her preposterous idea of not wanting to have a child, no not even a Labradoodle to be considered as one, their pre-nuptial agreement. 

All these made her mouth with coral lipstick twitched a bit, her throat dry longing for gin and tonic, and the palm of her hands cold and sweaty. And in those moments, she felt she needed the urge to run and hide.

She always had her easy escape though. Inside the elevator, its four corners were what she considered her temporal saviors. And as its doors opened, she strongly believed there was her safety in the arms and embraces of Delacroix and Degas. 

She will surely and hurriedly run a bath. Vanilla rose and dreamlike scent of mist, as if they could erase the filth of reality pertaining to the fact that somehow she really loved fully and the unnerving reasons about her idea of fulfilling her individuality conflicting to that of her romance and passion and the feeling of fear as her everything tends to start slipping away. 

She confronted her fears as she entered her Versailles designed room and as she dressed herself up with one of those satin night dresses of hers and as she allowed her body on her four poster bed and thick mattress of undiscovered lies, loath, and yes, longing. 

She was now alone on this endeavor but that was the least of her concerns. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep.