The pearls dripped from her neck like a nightmarish version of beauty. She waltzed in the room, took a seat in the chair pulled out waiting ready, and smiled, smiled and smiled at the people and the place and the music notes casually drifting about the room in a drunken stupor she couldn’t quite place but had seen before and she loved it and it was real. She wrapped her fingers about the edge of the table cloth, rubbing it between fingers, folding it, unfolding it, folding it again, and on and on, all the while contemplating the tangibility of such a scene with her eyes. Her silk dress spilled over the edges of her seat, tumbling down in long drapes and swaths until it kissed the marble floor, whispering the gauzy secrets of its wearer into the stone, into the paint, into the walls, into the people. Her feet tapped off beat to the jazz band; the jazz band rocked, swayed, danced, bounced, practically reverberated to the noises they created in impossible harmony; harmony lunged out at the crowd, took them by the hand, twirled them and they danced in pairs or alone, shaking fingers, hands, arms, feet, legs, body. Quaking-feeling-moving-drifting, laughs echoed in the halls. Tasteless women gestured towards tasteless dresses in ill-masked disgust, forgotten men spoke of their forgettable life that no one cared to hear about as they nodded along to the jazz band’s intoxicating venom dripping from saxophone fangs. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to find an individual where she saw a mass.
This piece was originally written in August 2013 and was inspired by Fitzgerald.