Many weeks she had been thinking. Thinking forward to that day. The day of the ball. This was to be the biggest thing for weeks. We might not admit it inside us when we are really looking forward to things but the inner self sings of it; waits.
The girl of her was really excited, and who would be there was a part of it. They were the one who would make it. Make it the thing that it was. This was the magic of it here in the heart, the heart of the imagery floating.
Not that they needed to do anything. Or even be anything. Being there was enough.
Once you have a connection. Once that connection is promised to be real. Any amount of being a mundane miss in a little world of ordinariness will be acceptable. Just on the promise of what could be and the way that he thinks of you.
Such was the moment of walking into the castle, well the substitute for one. And the bliss of it. Look at the ripples and the train and the elegance. This all is actually nothing. If you want to know how it feels spend the weeks. Spend the, ‘at last here it is feel’, and the cold slow splendour of deciding to try on. Nothing. None of that is anything to the wearing of it.
The daring. Marching. Elegantly. With your friend hopefully keeping up. Looking as if you are together in this when actually you each are an entity with a dream-self within them, who, feeling the starch and the silk and the bodice of it, is walking in heel high and ready.
You don’t know at this moment that everyone is looking at you. You don’t realise anything. Anything really except the most perfect fantasy of it. The fantasy that runs into reality. They are looking though. They might not forget this.
He is, what matters, at this moment though. And it really is a moment, well an evening. There might be nothing but this dusk to dawn thing. We catch what we can and we move on somehow regardless. It all will be worth it, yes, well, if we can work it together. Thank you.
Greetings are made and step climbing is survived. She the figure we talk of here, steps up and asks. Makes all the pleasantries, asks. Says all the things that this beautiful fantasy is made of and walks in to this. The dream. The longing. The looking forward is here. We walk in. Holding the train and, almost forgetting about elegance, walk in.
By the way, asking, “Where is Alistair?” Just in there. Through in the garden. Through all the inner rooms, reception and everything, in, or out actually, onto the conservatory, patio, lawn area. This castle cum party home is rather elegant. Come in calls everyone. They all see how good she is. Feel the specialness of it. Come in, rather, out here.
And walk round she does. Trying not to hobble. Wanting to run at it. Taking the circle of it. Say hellos, circulate. Here he is. No he’s not.
It turns out. After many minutes. After very many minutes. After turning around here elegantly looking for him. The hostess is married to someone called Alistair. She thought you meant him.
‘Oh sorry,’ she says, amid welcoming people, ‘Oh that Alistair, he, didn’t come. He is ill somewhere. Sorry. Enjoy. Have a nice party’.
The girl in the long dress,
Is standing on the hem of her own gown now and is not sure where she will go from here.
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