06.14.05

this is the day

I don�t know what to do. The woman in front of me, her cheeks are about to fall off and slid to the floor. They will be two yellowing very quaint English cheeks, sitting there at my feet. She�s smiling about this whole thing, telling me of the day that she thought it would be fun to cross the Sahara. She says they were ill prepared, only a car � that in itself was old and nearly falling apart until they propped it together with birth of wood and rope- and a few canisters of water. It was going to be an adventure.
One wonders, with people with that kind of mentality, how any of the British managed to survive at all. It is a miracle to say the least.
Then, there they are. Now they have slid half way down. It is almost frightening and now I wonder if this is really happening. Of course, I am a bit vain and when bored my imagination brings flickering little scenes before my eyes, but I look at the others around me and I am certain.
They will splatter all over my newly shined shoes. I paid a grown man five dollars to shine those shoes. He did all but kiss them and now, after all of that, they shall be splattered with the cheeks of some woman who didn�t quite realise the immensity that is the Sahara.
I feel like I am going to cry.
The service programme was meant to be an enriching experience. I was eager. I remember salivating at the idea of ladies and dames sitting around me, quietly sipping tea. I imagined some sort of royal birdcage where the dames, perfectly coiffed and rouged, would sing delicately as we enjoyed a slight, rose-scented breeze. Nervously, I imagined having my portrait painted and hung amongst those of these dear ladies, when I had become a pet of theirs.
Kept. A toy. Yes, polished, perfectly trimmed, articulate. Languidly pouting until they perked, asking me what was the matter and I furrowed my brow in contemplation. That was the dream.
As of the moment, I regret being a dreamer.
The car would shut down every so often and they would get out and push it through the lemon coloured sand. It was great fun. They would walk along then, for some while after it had started, singing and kicking sand at each other until it was time for them to get back in. between the four of them, they switched drivers every couple of hours. Eventually though, the car began to break down every three miles. They would have to dig it out of a dune with a spare hubcap, with their hands which became raw and dry after a few days.
There was not enough water. The car guzzled too much and they began so see the world waver before their eyes. Before long, two died, resting beneath the shade of the stalled car. She recalled how the woman- she called her Gertrude- had been smiling, and how she had said before that this desert business was �most trying.�
Now her cheeks trembled with her smile, as if all the energy in her frail body had gone to lift them up to her eyes. Bright English teeth gleaming. Carefully, she led them back down.
They were buried in the Sahara, where they had died, with the car as a tombstone. Of course, the embassy found her before she too, joined Gertrude in her peaceful contemplation of the lolling landscape. She was a bit peak-ed upon return, but no worse for the wear.
And yet from this she was able to continue living, to acquire this old age. Her face was so mapped it was if she collected wrinkles and kept them on her face for safe keeping. This one, here, on the inside of her smile, that one she had found whilst in the Sahara. What, you can�t see it? Go on! Then, that one there, that was from and escapade in which I thought it would be grand to take a detour from our trip to Brazil through the Amazon. I quite enjoyed it but I think id rather not do it again just now.
Her hair is flying off to the side, quite amused with itself. The few strands that are left are slightly curled and they wave as she bobs her head slightly from side to side. She gesticulates too, so demurely that it makes the images of her and the grand dames clash in my head, but her arms are too thin, too speckled with age and unstable. Her blue eyes are too bright as she tells me of her trip, she smiles too wildly.
Even in the face of my absolute horror, so excited.
I can only imagine how I must look, never looking in her eyes but always at the mounds of flesh easing their way across her face. Perhaps they had decided that it is time to leave, like most of her hair did long ago. The neighbourhood had become too different, now all these strange wrinkles and spots have moved in. the maids no longer come, the landscapers have given up. It is time to find better real estate before it is too late.
Bright lads.
Their decision seems entirely logical. In fact, I applaud their bravery, not many cheeks seek new homes. Yet, as they quiver on the cusp of her jaw, I only wish they could respect the beauty of freshly polished shoes.

shi-ou-sama at 10:00 p.m.

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