Greta, the wife, left: “Is this what it’s come to, with this massive table representing the distance in our marriage?”
Felix, the servant, fiddling with who knows what, center, whispering: “Girl, don’t poke the bear. You know he has unregulated testosterone issues.”
Anders, husband, possible bear, right: “Whatever do you mean, my little nectarine?”
Greta: “I mean that you haven’t plucked my fruit for many months, and I’ve grown weary of the proffering without an appreciative harvest.”
Felix: “Oh God. Somebody’s going to throw something at some point. Why can’t these two just sublimate their issues like all the other people who can actually afford Art Deco furniture?”
Anders: “I suppose I could say that I don’t particularly relish sloppy seconds, but that would be too easy. Just like you.”
Greta: “Really, now? Are you implying that I’m the one who strayed? That’s rich. Everyone in the county knows about your salacious pursuit of hundreds of people that are not me.”
Felix: “I don’t think my sphincter can be any tighter.”
Anders: “Oh. Well, it’s possible that you might have some documentary evidence that could maybe impugn me a bit, as I don’t really remember many of the people, places and things that I’ve done. Perhaps it’s best that I simply eat my Eggs Benedict and continue hiding my earnings in offshore accounts.”
Greta: “That sounds splendid. And perhaps I should convince my army of divorce lawyers that they shouldn’t desecrate you entirely.”
Felix: “Okay, maybe I can relax now. I’ve polished this silver candlestick to the point that it can be seen from Venus.”
Anders: “Speaking of an army, and therefore military maneuvers, have you noticed that our butler is flexing his buttocks in a remarkably familiar manner.”
Greta: “Whatever do you mean?”
Felix: “Oh, this just took a turn for the worse. Why couldn’t I have paid more attention in high school?”
Anders: “I mean that I’ve seen that two-moon junction before. And if memory serves, that vision occurred when I barged into your room one morning, when I merely wanted to inquire on your thoughts about tax evasion, and instead I was treated to a rather aggressive example of a hole in one.”
Greta: “Ah, I do seem to recall a shift in the atmosphere before he teed off. In the interest of self-preservation, allow me to confirm that his 9-iron has nothing on yours.”
Felix: “Sweet Jesus, just take me now.”
Anders: “I’m fully aware that he can’t compare. After all, I went to Harvard. Now, my straying kumquat, I’m assuming that we’ve both finished this round with the same score, and we can go back to blithely ignoring each other’s time in the sand traps. Could you pass the salt?”
Greta: “Of course. Felix, could you be a dear and convey the condiment? You know I don’t do manual labor. Except for you. And maybe the gardener. But that one doesn’t really count. I had no idea his sprinkler system was so sensitive. We were done before it had even started.”
Felix: “Yes, ma’am. I will happily give it to your husband.”
Anders: “Not just yet, Felix. You know I don’t get frisky until after I’ve reviewed my stock earnings. Oh wait, are you still talking about the salt?”
Previously published, small changes made. For those of you who have noticed that my Crusty Pie site, the “testing ground” for all the Past Imperfects, has been dormant for quite some time, my apologies. It’s one of the things I had to let slide, as I adjust my writing focus more towards my books. But I’ll have to fire it back up sooner or later, if only to have a go-to source for nights like this when I don’t have anything fresh to post. In the interim, cherish the time we had in the sand traps…
Categories: Past Imperfect
Bonnywood Manor 
Reblogged this on Love and Love Alone.
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Thank you!
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You’ve had a good time playing with conversation. Thanks.
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I always do, much to my warped satisfaction… 😉
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9… or 7. As long as it’s made of iron, I’m good.
😈
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I couldn’t agree more… 😉
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LOL, “sublimate their issues…”, “blithely ignoring each other”. Hahaha. The table does look deliberately big to minimize intimacy. Both the waiter and the painting on the wall look weird. He is basically facing a side table with nothing on but two candle sticks and a urn like object. And who would put a painting like that on the wall?
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I agree that there is a LOT going on in this photo, which is why it intrigued me enough to write a story about it. As for the painting, well, the symbolism of such fits in quite nicely with the dialogue I proceeded to envision. Or at least it does in my own frenetic mind… 😉
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“We’ll always have the sand traps” just doesn’t have the ring and “We’ll always have Paris”🤷🏼♀️
Oh well… play it Felix
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True enough, that line doesn’t have quite the same ring. But for certain people who play rounds of amorous golf, it speaks volumes… 😉
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So much sand, so little … ummm … so little … Who wants sand, anyway? It’s quite an irritant, no matter where it is. In your shoes, in your eyes, in your drawers. The only people who like sand are glass blowers… okay … I get the connection now. 😉
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See? I left a trail of obscure (and mildly ribald) bread crumbs, and you reached the intended destination. Thank you for that… 😉
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I vaguely recall this one. That table and the weird round picture thingie stuck in the midst of what I took to be a window, looking over a smog laden New York City (pre-Covid) ring some bells. So does Felix, his bald head shining in the sun ♪♪♫♪ . I think that’s a window, not a wall, because who hangs hideous drapery along their wall? Unless it is the overly wealthy who possess no taste nor sense of decor OR decorum. I mean airing one’s less than pristine linen in front of the help? (even though he’s the one who apparently helped sully said linen) Oh the horror!
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Fair enough, this is truly a roundelay of ill-thought and ill-executed decisions and tawdry accomplishments. This is a warning to us all that wealth does not mitigate our base instincts. It’s also a warning that nothing is sacred in Bonnywood and I will plunder the depths of depravity all around us, as long as I can get a few zinger lines out of the mess. I do have some sympathy for the sullied linen, but the truth needs to be told… 😉
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On the mantle you can barely see the urn that contain the ashes of Greta’s first husband, Felix’s late brother, a man of slender means. cheers
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Oh, I like your angle, with the urn and the continuation of the double entendres. I could certainly stretch this out into a sequel. Something slickened this way comes…
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I remember this primarily because of the decor. It will never be within my means, but I think Art Deco is the cats pajamas.
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I am enraptured by Art Deco as well. Such style and sophistication. But you’re right, one has to be a trust fund kid in order to afford owning any legitimate pieces…
Fun Fact: Tulsa actually has a quite a few fantastic examples of Art Deco architecture and design. (The oil boom that put Tulsa on the map was playing out during the same period as Deco, one of those kismet things.) Here’s an article on some of the buildings:
https://www.architecturaldigest.com/story/tulsa-art-deco-architecture
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Interesting article. I didn’t know that Tulsa has such beautiful buildings.
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It’s such an odd dichotomy. Tulsa is a bastion of conservative thinking and rejection of progress, but there has always been a sizeable contingent of folks, often stymied by those conservatives, who truly appreciate art and beauty and progress. It was surreal growing up there, watching both of those forces at work…
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