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| Alice wants to dress me in blue satin. I'm not seeing it. What sort of blind fool wears a satin dress to a picnic? Does she realize picnics take place at ground level, with nothing but a flimsy bit of cloth between one's best dress and God's brown dirt? Clark laughs affectionately at my ignorance from the doorway. "A Society picnic is a picnic in name only, dear. Imagine the Triangle Enchanter's Tea, but transposed to a big glass pavilion in the middle of Dorothy's back garden. Which, by the way, is also a garden in name only." It kills me to see Alice's eyes shining like that. She's a woman of my own country, and I know her fondest fantasies, fantasies of a humble born Dargan lass being received socially by the strongest enchantress in the world, rest on my shoulders alone. But my efforts to become a part of Clark's world have been as the rolling of Dextros' Boulder up the great hill of Nestor as twenty-four smirking devils in perfect evening wear looked on. Blue satin? Homespun twill? A turnip sack? I realize it doesn't matter in the slightest. Clark loves me as I am, and his family will just have to live with it. (208 words) |
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