Black beads, worn down by generations of thumbs, linked by century-old wire knots, prayed through the sorrowful and joyful mysteries, made their way through the long icy and elegant fingers of her right hand. A hand so well manicured and moisturized, the scars of her early years were not visible. She suppressed that life the moment he became a viable prospect, she hastily stuffed her past into a time capsule, she sealed her fate in purgatory the day she vowed to stand by him in sickness and health.
She stood like a ruler with punctuated curves. Perfect posture: Were a level placed parallel her legs, it would confirm such. Legs so long they could thrice wrap around his neck like a vice. Squeezing out his last breath. Heaven, she thought for a moment. She quickly released the thought. She chanted decade after decade of Hail Marys, in between which, she recited her daily mantra.
“Sticks and stones may break my bones but his names will never hurt me.”
A Dick he most certainly was. She was hardly Jane. He was a stick without a soul, evidenced by the Pradas on her feet the diamond studs in her ears. Everything she ever imagined was here in this White House, in this un-united country, that she cleverly weaseled and bamboozled her way into, and who today calls her its “First Lady”.
He once called her a tall drink. Yes, he called her that and more. Back then he kissed her ring. He bowed to her. Back then, when he loved more than her ass. Back when he didn’t quantify people as liabilities. Or so she thought, anyway.
With her left hand, she gracefully picked up the glass, the vodka inside, a gift from Vladimir. She smiled longingly, the posture of the extra long stem of the crystal vessel stood perpendicular to the fingers that held it.
Perpendicular, posture, perfect. Yes, she was all that and more.
This balcony, more, opulent than the rooms of the homes on whose beds she once spread, that stood overlooking a luscious carpet, greener than the envy she had for those who live outside of the public eye, people who live on the other side of that fence.
Anonymity. She coveted it more than anything.
She knew better to think he would not be re-elected. What the Donald wants, the Donald gets. If she were to die before him, he’d likely ship her off to the taxidermist, who would stuff her bust and mount it to his wall. To him, she was just another trophy.
As much as she tried to believe this farce was “not her circus, and these were not her monkeys” they were. She was the complicit ring-mistress. She ensured his vanity and variety show would go on when the ultrasound confirmed a son and he canceled the scheduled abortion. She traded her womb for stilettos and vacuous sex. With taciturn and confidence she deftly performed her role. Her contempt for him so obvious. She, the loyal wife, cloaked in rosaries made by Italian artisans and soaked in vodka gifted by men, who too are gifted.
Note: Last week Dale at A Dalectable Life commented that on a saying we used as kids (and still do sometimes as adults): “I’m rubber and you’re glue, whatever you say bounces off of me and sticks to you.” An exchange followed and we lassoed Marc from Sorryless. Two prompts were born. The first being the rubber retort, the second “Not My Circus, Not My Monkeys”. Dale opted for rubber and Marc for circus. We played loosey-goosey with rules, the prompts being the foundation. I wrote about a rubber reaction the other day. And slept on the circus, as I was intimidated by the dynamic duo’s posts. I got down to monkey business this morning. It was all around fun. It was certainly my pleasure and honor to be playing with the likes Marc and Dale, whose writing and words make this world the joyful circus it is.