At risk of seeming irreverent, there is so much suffering out there, but here’s some fan fiction, a little fantasy, which we could all use right now.
In more optimistic moments there is something delicious, like being a person of leisure. Hm, there’s no C there. Weird. Never mind. Too much time on my hands. The long empty hours of nothing doing. Killing time as if there were nothing else to do, or perhaps to keep from worrying, as April may, in fact, be the cruelest month, for some.
Soaking long in a fragrant steamy bubble bath. Staring out the window at no traffic below.
Lounging in leisure wear, looking at the clock to see if it’s the cocktail hour yet, no, only 10:45, 15 minutes to go. Not really, but like something out of a Fitzgerald novel, or mid twentieth century drama or better yet, Nick and Nora Charles in their suite at the Ritz, or was it the Plaza? Wherever.
-Nicky? Nicky! (Reclining odalisque-esque in her charmeuse dressing gown, bracelets jangling, on a sumptuous suede chaise lounge, Nora stares blankly at her cerise nails, and then sighs and raises an immaculate eyebrow at the empty martini glass in her other hand )
-Yes, darling? (Amidst the sound of clinking ice cubes, Nick calls brightly from the other room )
-Nicky? Where’s Asta?
(an indecipherable mumble from the other room, drowned out by the sound of the martini shaker)
-Nicky? You didn’t… No… Nicky… No. (Nora rolls her eyes, bats her long eyelashes, and tries to stifle a smile)
(Nick appears in the doorway with martini shaker in hand and a conspiratorial smile under his pencil thin mustache)
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