The short story of she who loved Tony

In the Orchid Room a girl was smiling like a mad diva at a violinist screeching like a chaos bird…he could do no wrong because she was in love with the wave of his hair (privately, and only to her self, she wondered if he used pomade).

His name was Jim, and he was a Jim – like all the Jim’s you may ever have known, except she preferred to call him Tony…which in her mind more closely matched his hair, and the scoff of his shoes which when roused danced like Astaire.

Because her story would need to resolve itself with a sober tragedy on a morning in a room littered with bottles, affects and affections – where she could indignity slide from disdainful sheets – he loved another, but only for her necessity.

You might say it was his act of service…

Poetman

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