Jeanne was a forlorn young woman with gentle brown curls.
Large eyes, skin of soft and white.
A soulful creature somewhat lost in appearance, exuding a tenderness.
Strolling the streets aimlessly, nervous and unsure.
Into a shop for soothing’s sake and stopping the need to run.
The shop keeper made banter until Jeanne could escape.
An unsocial girl, she couldn’t stay long.
Back in her safe room with her lost father downstairs, she went to her top drawer and withdrew the object sharp and silver.
Sitting in her flowered chair in Indian style, pausing only a second, she drew the razor tenderly yet surely across her alabaster thigh.
Red drops appeared. Then the other leg for symmetries’ sake.
The sharp pain was quiet, soothing to Jeanne.
Bill Spence had a hard time remembering himself anymore since Sally died.
Missing, so much missing.
He went to her closet when the house was quiet. He stood there inhaling the warm scent of her still remembering clothes.
Letting the softness drape over him, lay on him, be on him,
in the quiet secrecy of the house.
Dressed in Sally.
Muriel wanted Tom.
Tom was different and Muriel was getting different.
Hard to compete with those on the make broads dressed in colorful curls, watery grins and carefully chosen movements in all day planning.
She went to Tom and asked him to come home with her.
“Okay”, he said.
Blanche was 60.
Harsh for a belle.
Colorful paper and strewn about ribbons on a table laid with expectations.
A darkened room, a birthday party.
No children’s laughter.
Blanche’s high held ribs, hollow sound.
A too tight countenance with hair pinned back, school marm glasses.
Too many exposed legs and breasts and booze.
Held together by pins and wires,
he stood in front of her small house.
He knocked softly,
“are you sure?”
Quiet closed the door.
“ Maudie, I’m going to join up now, “said young Tim.
“I’ve made up my mind, I’m goin’.”
Can’t compete with the romance of war and do the right thing sort of baloney.
Tim being a serious sort of boy would take kindly to that romantic stuff.
“Timmy come here one more time.”
She watched him walk down the dusty road, jaunty like.
Beautiful Bruce with his Dick Tracy kind of looks lay in his waiting bed.
His white shock of hair gave him an angelic quality hiding his once powerful physique behind a white sheet and gown.
Precious memories give a kind of translucent glow as he waits the long wait.