Yes, Colleen was dismayed to learn that her beau had fallen under the spell of that harlot from her Garden Club. Luckily, Colleen had recently installed a lovely contraption wherein all she had to do was pull the rope to her left and the home-wrecking vixen would plummet into the bowels of the Earth. On the other hand, there wasn’t anything anyone could do to make her own dress even the least bit attractive. This was a shocking revelation that she hadn’t considered until she caught a reflection of herself in the mirror that used to hang on the wall behind her until she wrenched the wretched mirror off that wall and hurled it yonder, a startling bit of physicality that occurred roughly three seconds before our story began.
Colleen was very blue. Her paramour was philandering and all the decent dress shops were closed. It was a girl’s absolute worst nightmare. She might as well hurl herself after the mirror in a nice Ophelia tribute, only without the benefit of buoyant water or clever Shakespearean dialogue.
Wait, speaking of words, Colleen could now see that typography had appeared on her potential ex-lover. (She hadn’t completely ruled him out as a partner, despite the rude straying, as there were several cotillions occurring in the near future and it was far too late to secure secondary accompaniment.) This gave her sudden inspiration (something that had been clearly lacking when she selected her couture) and she bravely stepped forward, intent on revenge toward both parties.
Colleen: “Sybil, dear, I’m not so sure you should be touching our Wesley in such an intimate manner. He has an STD, you know.”
Sybil: “STD? Aren’t those the people that make motor oil? Does our Wesley have some type of lubrication issue?”
Colleen: “No, you brick, he has a sensually-transmitted disease. I read about it in Harper’s Bizarre.”
Sybil: “A disease? Are you sure? One can’t mess around with such things during cotillion season. What are the symptoms?”
Colleen: “The sudden appearance of words on the infected, spelling out their condition and shortcomings. Haven’t you noticed that our Wesley has his own title card?”
Sybil: “Oh. I just thought he was happy to see me. But now that you mention it, what on earth does ‘Silent Cinema’ mean?”
Colleen: “It’s a medical term. It indicates a person who, when they present their feature film, the audience does not respond at all.”
Sybil: “I’m not following…”
Colleen: “He has a tiny penis.”
Sybil: “Interesting. And you’ve been in this audience? I like to check my facts.”
Colleen: “Multiple times. How do you think I was able to afford this dress?”
Sybil: “Duly noted, although your designer most likely will not be. Well. Now that the title cards are on the table, I believe I’ll wander off in search of prospects with a fuller deck, so to speak. Ciao for now.”
Colleen: “We’ll miss you terribly.”
Sybil: “I’m sure you will. But before I go, may I ask one final question?”
Colleen: “As long as you’re leaving, yes.”
Sybil: “Why is the bannister behind me draped in mourning vestments?”
Colleen: “Because our Wesley felt the need to slide down it whilst in a delicate condition. We’re doing what we can to tamper the radiation.”
Sybil: “Got it. I’m sure I would do the same, if I were in your situation, although that’s a doubtful happenstance, as I would never purchase a garment produced in Mesopotamia. Have a good evening, and please, don’t call.” She fled.
Our Wesley, finally reaching the point in the script where he has some actual dialogue: “There are so many things I could say right now, but I’ll limit my query to one.”
Colleen: “Oh, so now you’re capping your exploits at just a single objective?”
Our Wesley: “Cute. But since this entire conversation has been based on photo-shop intrusions, what does that ‘153’ mean down there on your lower left?”
Colleen: “That’s the tracking number of how many times I will forgive you before I pull on this tasseled firing pin and send you packing. I have randomly selected ‘155’ as The Judgement Click, and we’re almost there. Thin ice, my wandering love. Thin ice.”
Our Wesley: “Understood. I shall never look upon Sybil with any degree of measurable lust, and I think your couture is strikingly original. Now, should we go see if there is anything decent left on the shrimp buffet?”
Colleen: “Truer words were never spoken.”
Our Wesley: “I’m not sure I’m adequately processing your words. Is that another barb meant to sting me?”
Colleen: “Of course, dear. My barb tally is only at ‘78’. You’ve got miles to go before I match your own performance, more than enough hits to get us through the cotillion season. Isn’t math a lovely thing?”
Our Wesley: “I’ve never trusted math.”
Colleen: “And I’m a bit perplexed about what you actually want in this relationship. Perhaps we could have some champagne and discuss our trust issues?”
Our Wesley: “That sounds splendid. And in that spirit, I trust that you have plenty of the bubbly in stock?”
Colleen: “Of course. This is the South. Alcohol is more important than cotton. Let’s navigate toward the nectar. Oh, and Wesley?”
Sour Wesley: “You still have more words? I thought we were done for the moment.”
Colleen: “I also have a remote control for the tasseled firing pin, so don’t think you’re safe just because I’m not standing near the staircase.”
Sour Wesley: “You always have a plan, don’t you?”
Colleen: “Naturally. Except when it comes to Mesopotamian dresses. I need to work on that.”
Previously published, modified and extended for this post.
Categories: Past Imperfect