THE PARTY

       

         

        Miss Riley was in a feisty mood, meaning, "Tonight!…the GALA?...will be what-it-is!  It’s simply, that simple! Simply Divine! "

But first she has all manner of things to tend to, not the least of which was ‘clean-out that old crows nest’…'plump the pucker on the old kisser’…’a cucumber peel should seal the deal’, and then 'take this old mane, and make something Majestic!’.

The morning was half gone, she best get started. 

Oh. Don’t mind the door slam. The Miss is usually under unusual stress while under construction.

I suppose it’s left up to me, to warn you, that Miss Riley can fly off the handle in a cat-quick manner. I mean, a mean, claws out, alley cat…if things don’t go exactly right. Be fare warned, the rest of the way is fairly messy...and private. 

Things applied, pushed, pulled, minimized and amplified. It won’t be pretty, and it is not your business, so best, leave it there, behind closed doors.

Of course, through the course of the day, she managed to be a real trooper (temper-tantrums aside), and she relinquished her body to tortuous demands of Fashion. 

The hours ticked by, both painfully slow, yet, panic-inducingly frantic. Could the Night really be  approaching so quickly?

The key was to pace one’s self. All is a work-in-progress until the work is done. But the patience it takes…the craft…

Worth it, when her moment comes, and she enters the room, the Orchestration playing in her mind, she makes her entrance, dripping with Class and Elegance.

But it was not to be. 

On her way out the door, she grabbed the invite, and with trembling hands, read that the party is tomorrow night…

Shall I close the door behind me as I leave, Miss Riley?

 V

BLANK CANVAS

 

Is “milky” a complexion? I mean, this dude was so ‘milky’, his skin looked skimmy. He had a shock of that white-blond hair , like a powder-puff-wig, with the eyebrows and lashes, that disappear into his face, like they didn’t exist or belong there in the first place. So, is that ‘picture’ enough for you? Chalk. Milk. Plain yogurt…white. A portrait would be a blank canvas.

And this isn’t a racial thing…no black & white thing. It’s just bizarre, an exception to the rule…like an albino in a snowstorm. And you talk to him and it’s like…snow, too, you know? You reach out and a flake lands, but it’s there one second, and melts the next. You don’t know what you’re getting. 

His words are within context but not connected. Nothing is connected. 

 

I didn’t touch him, no reason to really, he was approachable, but at a distance…a space…and a handshake was out of the question. That was understood.  But I sense if there were an embrace, it would be chilling, so, to be fair, I too, kept my distance.

There wasn’t any effort on his part to partake in idle conversation. No ‘shooting the breeze’ while we wait. He stood off to one side and was respectful, I’ll say that much. It was difficult… uncomfortable…the wait.

They dimmed the hall lights. Still we stood in solemn silence. No breaking this mood. 

They finally wheeled her out at 3:12 in the morning. The train leaves at 6:30. It would be close, but they’ll make it. She wanted to be Home. The iceman would escort the body. 

With little time, and a rushed goodbye, she was gone.

V