“When they finished lunch, Emily and Matilda liked to sit down in the Florida room to watch the blooming garden, sharing a cup of comforting tea. Emily languidly gazed at the inscrutable mist in the garden, her body steeped with a hot infusion and her spirit with a much mellower one: Melancholy.

-“It blows my mind,” Matilda said. “Throwing money away like that instead of choosing something more discreet—that Ruth must be fuming.”

The intended interlocutor had a meandering moss marching across her mind.

-“Emily…Hello! What’s wrong with you?”

-“Nothing… So you want to watch a Mafia movie?”

-“That’s not it… Pay attention for a second…Did you hear that we’ve got the invitation to attend Annie’s wedding in Florida next month, eh?”

-“Really? That’s great—”

-“We can squeeze in your Miami Beach condo, can’t we? You should have listened to her. She gave me gazillion details of… Hello! Anybody home?”

-“I’m listening…Of course we can—what’s that story with Al Capone?”

-“Oh, that….The show-off booked the same Biltmore suite he liked to stay in … They’ll also dress with vintage Roaring Twenties-outfits when they fly to Paris in Air France’s Fist Class to stay in the Georges V hotel—“

-“Sounds so cool,” Emily said with an ersatz emotion. She was not into it.

Filled with nuptial bliss, she feels trapped by the trappings of Love.”

In my novel, Emily was feeling less and less satisfaction from her material possessions, replaced by a widening spiritual void. Hedonic adaptation. The curse of all those ladies that, for various reasons, prioritized the acquisition of material things in their lives and relegated their emotional needs for later.

But somehow it eventually catches to them in a rather painful comeuppance. We have seen it on a recurrent basis over the years; saddled with material wealth they crave for a glimmer of romanticism that would lighten them up. It concerns almost all the age, ethnic, cultural and socio-economic groups. Blissfully, their emotional frustration often converts them into avid readers.

“One routine-tinged afternoon, Georgina was casually listening to a talk show in “Radio Atlántica” that dealt with lame issues. Except that day.

-“We have a literary question,” a female announcer said. “And whoever gets it right will get a brand new washing machine…Are you ready?“

Georgina stopped peeling potatoes to turn the radio’s volume up.

-“What did Gabrielle D’Annunzio—the Italian writer who was an inveterate womanizer—liked to do when he was making love? Call us now.”

Many calls ensued with all sort of wrong answers until a gentleman, who was a retired professor of literature, finally called with the precise one.

-“D’Annunzio became bald while he was still young,” he said. “Therefore he usually carried an elegant partial wig to conceal that fact to his admirers.”

-“Right…And? Go on—”

-“He had a throng of adoring women…He was a big celebrity.”

-“Fine…But what did he do?” The announcer was ready to take another call.

Panting as one of the poet’s bedded lovers, Georgina roots for him.

-“Right before reaching the climax, he lifted his toupée up to show his baldness…She caressed the phallic sign and had a huge orgasm.”

-“Bravo! Bravo! That’s what he liked to do—you won the prize.”

Stuck in a dreadful domestic rut, Georgina’s spirit alights d’emblée.”

 

What do you think? Please tell us.

Don’t leave me alone.

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