A story for those who read, by T.S Eliot. And now by me.
A star struck soldier stands in pride, with one foot idly resting behind the other, tilted to follow the stone of the balustrade. A porcelain doll stands by his side, head tilted and mechanically smiling (behind the scenes a hundred women, mothers, cousins, aunts, are pushing at the backs of each one). The lights of gentle stars line her view of his head, making him a dark outline against the sky, wherin cold lights of blue reside. His foreshadowed form rises above her, taking the shape of a Grecian sculpture, in perfect antiposto pose. Her eyes shine, and silver lights reflect below dusky pink lips, her dress forces her into the form that society thinks is pretty, and exposes just enough to barely whet the nostrils, let alone the tongue. Her small-seeming form is coiled beneath him, perfect posture showing her as an impossibly correct miniature.
“Let us go then, you and I/ When the evening is spread out against the sky – “
The doll’s eyes twinkle up at him, waiting for the lines society will expect, a small mouth opens to murmur, “oh, Tom – “
“like a patient etherised upon a table”
She glances to either side, searching for the eyes she knows are watching, for the sake of safety, modesty and the right to gossip. She glances down and unsuccessfully searches, within her mind, their absent minds to tell her what to do. Unanswered she looks up, and squares her shoulders out of her correct posture and into one here considered to belong to the masculine, and mouths rebellious words in her prettily pink, pouted, pinched lips: “I don’t think so, Tommy dear, I know what lies inside.”
Unperturbed the ardent youth, continues against all he was taught, “let us go, through certain half-deserted streets/ the muttering retreats/ of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels.”
She begins to blush, and stifles a smile which tries in vain to pretty her scarlet, dimpled cheeks, “Tommy, no… a cheap hotel? I don’t – “
“and sawdust resturants with oystershells:/ streets that follow like a tedious argument – “
“oysters, did you say? But you know they’re a you-know-what –“
”of insidious intent – “
“intent to woo, dear sir, or an artful act of such?” It is unclear on whom this so-called act, or intent, is hung. An act is adopted in which the players are playing to separate audiences, from contradicting scripts.
“to lead you to an overwhelming question…”
“To marry, is this your honest offering?” An almost silent ghasp.
“Oh, do not ask, “what is it?”/ Let us go and make our visit.”