variations on a trench coat: pink collar amibitions & W1L 020: Write one leaf about getting the mail.

I really prefer wearing my trench coat with really dark or really bright colors because lightening everything up with pastels tends to wash me out. However! I don't wear this Peter Pan collar blouse often enough in proportion to how much I like it, and I thought it was time for the pink to get some action (nudge nudge wink wink), which is why I call this variation on a trench coat...

Variation IX: Self-Service

...which is probably another reason I'll never get a job as long as I have a blog.

Trench coat: mother's, FoxRun. Pink Peter Pan collar blouse: French Toast Uniforms. Gray v-neck sweater: secondhand, gift, Target. Belt: thrifted. Floral shorts: DIY. Tights: generic. Galoshes: Hunter.




W1L 020: Write one leaf about getting the mail.

This is an unedited version of my original response to this prompt.

A friend of mine, whom I have dubbed The Unicorn, is someone I once found impossibly beautiful. We had a brief, awkward romantic history together, over the course of which I ascertained that he found me more impossible and perfect than I found him, and which smoldered but never caught into flame and continues to smolder to this day in the form of frequent text messages and e-mails and the occasional postal exchange.

Like many things in our relationship, our writing of letters has been thoroughly asymmetrical. He sends me a sheet or two of binder paper crisp with the charming embossment of ballpoint pen ink pressed by his own hand, regaling me with anecdotal examples of his life as of late, liberally garnished with unintelligible but obviously joyous strings of Swedish, Cyrillic, Icelandic, or Romanized Cantonese, and I digest them with mild bemusement and quality entertainment provided by the unserious consideration that I might write back. It should be evidence enough of my stone-heartedness that I batch his emails to reply to all at once, rather than answering each one individually as they ping in my inbox. No; I am the image of cold, robotic efficiency.

Once upon a time, The Unicorn asked, innocently, virginally, innocuously, if I should like to watch a movie with him. I graciously accepted, because our previous playdate had taken place in a private library and involved split pea soup and a game of chess, and because he was lovely, and possibly asexual, and because I was too preoccupied with pulverizing my heart into a fine powder over being dropped by an upperclassman who had unexpectedly insinuated his way further into my life than I had realized or could possibly have anticipated, first befriending me through sheer persistence, then suggesting to me slowly and in small ways plainly visible to everyone but me that I was the sole target of his affections. And when I was enlightened to the fact that this boy was very much into me, I fell, and words that said I didn't care fell too, out of my mouth of their own volition before I could stop them, and the words crowding the exit calling I'll miss you's and I like you rather a lots were silenced as I watched, bewildered, myself shoring the walls and raising the drawbridge. And, understandably, he pulled the plug.

And I fell, and I fell, and my heart retreated into itself further and further, until one night, sitting on the edge of a public fountain under a clear sky winking with stars, still in awe that the movie theater had been closed, and that a pair of elderly women wearing furs had walked by and asked if we wanted their tickets to hear the orchestra, and that we had gone, I shivered as the wind picked up.

The Unicorn asked if I was cold.

Freezing, I told him.

Let me warm you up, he had said, cupping my hands in his own.

And then I had hit the ground and my heart was irretrievable, and I told him, as bitingly as the wind, How could you? Your hands are freezing.

Because they were. It was cold, and he was cold and pale and beautiful and a vegetarian and, in retrospect, basically Edward Cullen, but I too was cold. I was too cold.

I went home angry, and I cried, and my heart turned into itself and hugged its knees and willed itself to die quietly so no one would notice.
Contas Premium
Compartilhe este filme: :

Post a Comment

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...
 
Support : Baixartemplatesnovos.blogspot.com
Copyright © 2012-2014. Missy Doroshi - todos os direitos reservados para

CINEHD- o melhor site de filmes online