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LAce Posted Monday, January 29th, 2007
In Her Boudoir
Donia Carey

While waiting for her beau, she dabs herself with Antilope, a French perfume she’s worn for fifty years now. It is her ‘signature’, though when she’s worn it a year or more it smells to her like insect repellent; Flit, perhaps. She switches then to Chanel #5, remembering a woman who called it Canal #5.

Her crinoline is ready, hanging on the door. She slips it over her head; it still fits. Shall she wear her poodle skirt with her Capezio flats? Her faux chignon, poorly attached, moves along with her, but to its own beat. A young man asked, so many years ago, if she ever took her hair down. She resisted an impulse to throw it at him. Instead, demure, she smiled her coy smile and answered, “Before I go to bed I brush it out.”

He stuttered then and nearly drooled.

She stares down at her blue-veined wrist. The hands of the little diamond-studded watch move ever so slowly. Still, the hours pass. Her beau is late.

No matter; she has nothing now but time.

Comments [post a comment]

Posted by Nonnie Augustine on Monday, January 29th, 2007 at 9:01 PM
This one hits me, gently, smack in the solar plexus, Donia.

Posted by Sharon Hurlbut on Thursday, February 1st, 2007 at 9:13 AM
Wonderful and oh so sad!

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