Her Thirties Part 62

Later that evening, by the time I got to Marilyn’s, I had calmed down a bit.

These flashbacks of a previous life in the Thirties were disconcerting to say the least—still I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything on earth.

I wondered if I’d ever become accustomed to this off-kilter life. Perhaps, it might evolve over time, and resolve itself—but then again, it could continue on this way forever, and persist the rest of our lives as some sort of waking dream.

I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to deal with that.

But on the other hand, what if it sorted itself out, and our lives became normal?

How might a complacent ‘normalcy’ affect my relationship with Marilyn? Everything now was bright, shiny and exciting—I associated those feelings with her.

I couldn’t possibly imagine her as a typical house frau—harried, hair askew and children under foot.

Actually, I couldn’t even imagine Marilyn in a domestic role—she’d have to be a Harlow—a timeless, silver screen goddess, alternating between captivating and breath taking.

Goddesses never become mundane—that wasn’t her fate.

She was my own Siren—my slippery, silvery fish.

I rang the bell, and she let me in. I sat in her front room awaiting her grand entrance. I never was disappointed.

When she finally emerged she took my breath away. She was dressed in black—wearing an iridescent, backless, halter-neck evening gown.

I loved the Thirties for the way they had restored the emphasis on the female form—the bodily shape—and Marilyn was the epitome of that femininity and sensuality.

The salons of Paris and the artistry of Schiaparelli and Vionnet could not have anticipated such an embodiment of their vision.

“Well, aren’t you going to tell me how I look?”

“I would if I could, but poetry alone would not suffice.”

She colored, but knew from my expression, she had won her victory.

“Give me a pedestal,” I said, “and I’ll place you on it.”

“Don’t ever say that—I never want to be anywhere, but by your side.”

She stood before me, separated by a few feet of space, and I felt those strong lines of force pulling us closer—like puzzle pieces snapping into place.

I didn’t want to go out. I didn’t want to go anywhere. I just wanted to be with her.

“Got to go, Joe,” she teased, and pulled me toward the door.

I pulled her back, and kissed her lips—a cold, dark kiss like the one that drew me to her in the beginning.

“I got all dressed up and I’m starving,” she pleaded.

I was starving too, but for her kisses.

“Okay, if we must,” I sighed.

“We’ve got forever, you know.”

I looked at her and saw she believed it. But the damnable thing was, I believed it too.

We’d talk over dinner—I had to get to the bottom of these feelings, or at very least, sublimate them—put them into words.

© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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