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fic | december 31st, 1927 (a "lest they leave" sequel)
DECEMBER 31ST, 1927
?
My darling Nina,
Luck favours the prepared, they say, and I can confirm. Bringing my one remaining evening dress, slightly out of fashion, but who checks the neckline or measures the skirt’s hem in the dim corners of a ballroom in order to find anything but nude legs and exposed cleavage, from its Parisian box to the New Year party at the theatre tonight, that place where I’m currently slaving away, it did me every imaginable favour. His name is Leonardo, he’s tall and broad and owns a cabaret in the eastern part of town. “Do you dance?” he asked me, first, to which I could assure him, “Absolutely, tesoro, I do”, because I can do both the waltz and the Charleston, and whatever lies in between those two extremes must surely just be degrees of same old. Then, he wanted to know, “Do you sing?” and although I can’t carry a tune, not for this pathetic little life of me, I said with great confidence, “I’ll sing anything you want me to sing, chéri,” and Leonardo was satisfied. Because I spoke French fluently, and my English was so-so, and I could deliver a line with great conviction. Besides, I also suck cock; meaning yes, he was satisfied, you know how they are. Men.
Such did the party play out, you suck off a guy, and a girl unironically asks you if you’re okay; the conclusion must be that I am getting old, Nina, and some of my edges have been smoothened over by the tides of time, which is naturally my one regret, not to be razor sharp and unapologetically so anymore, because there was once when I would have told that girl, “Kiss me, anima mia, and suck it up, you only get this one chance.” Knowing well, we all disappear. We’re all dinosaurs on this Earth. Tonight, instead, I kissed the fine-boned knuckles of her hand, and that was rather than giving it a slight squeeze which was too soft even for me in my current state, and I told her, “Come back soon, principessa, we aren’t done yet.”
Oh, believe me, cara, she’ll come. Because she knows where to find me. That is more than many girls get, from the celebrated mademoiselle Paolo.
It’s a new year in just a few minutes. What wishes do you have for it? If the answer is none, I’m grand, I’m fine, I’m dandy, I don’t live in a literal fortress of a land, like some lady in a tower, waiting for her knight, then I have a wish for you, chérie, that you can ignore or draw your own conclusions about, but it is what it is. When a cute, blonde girl comes to you, maybe in January, maybe in February, maybe later, and she wants a space to be herself, because England couldn’t provide it, and most of France is far from your little plot of Parisian soil, Giovannina, don’t give her space. Give that girl a hug. Please embrace her with your arms that are softer than mine were. Embrace her and let her in, she has come a long way to get to this point.
That is my wish for the New Year. Anything to do with myself, I’ll figure out on my own. Oh, no worries. You know me.
I’ll see myself out, thank you,
E.
Luck favours the prepared, they say, and I can confirm. Bringing my one remaining evening dress, slightly out of fashion, but who checks the neckline or measures the skirt’s hem in the dim corners of a ballroom in order to find anything but nude legs and exposed cleavage, from its Parisian box to the New Year party at the theatre tonight, that place where I’m currently slaving away, it did me every imaginable favour. His name is Leonardo, he’s tall and broad and owns a cabaret in the eastern part of town. “Do you dance?” he asked me, first, to which I could assure him, “Absolutely, tesoro, I do”, because I can do both the waltz and the Charleston, and whatever lies in between those two extremes must surely just be degrees of same old. Then, he wanted to know, “Do you sing?” and although I can’t carry a tune, not for this pathetic little life of me, I said with great confidence, “I’ll sing anything you want me to sing, chéri,” and Leonardo was satisfied. Because I spoke French fluently, and my English was so-so, and I could deliver a line with great conviction. Besides, I also suck cock; meaning yes, he was satisfied, you know how they are. Men.
Such did the party play out, you suck off a guy, and a girl unironically asks you if you’re okay; the conclusion must be that I am getting old, Nina, and some of my edges have been smoothened over by the tides of time, which is naturally my one regret, not to be razor sharp and unapologetically so anymore, because there was once when I would have told that girl, “Kiss me, anima mia, and suck it up, you only get this one chance.” Knowing well, we all disappear. We’re all dinosaurs on this Earth. Tonight, instead, I kissed the fine-boned knuckles of her hand, and that was rather than giving it a slight squeeze which was too soft even for me in my current state, and I told her, “Come back soon, principessa, we aren’t done yet.”
Oh, believe me, cara, she’ll come. Because she knows where to find me. That is more than many girls get, from the celebrated mademoiselle Paolo.
It’s a new year in just a few minutes. What wishes do you have for it? If the answer is none, I’m grand, I’m fine, I’m dandy, I don’t live in a literal fortress of a land, like some lady in a tower, waiting for her knight, then I have a wish for you, chérie, that you can ignore or draw your own conclusions about, but it is what it is. When a cute, blonde girl comes to you, maybe in January, maybe in February, maybe later, and she wants a space to be herself, because England couldn’t provide it, and most of France is far from your little plot of Parisian soil, Giovannina, don’t give her space. Give that girl a hug. Please embrace her with your arms that are softer than mine were. Embrace her and let her in, she has come a long way to get to this point.
That is my wish for the New Year. Anything to do with myself, I’ll figure out on my own. Oh, no worries. You know me.
I’ll see myself out, thank you,
E.