Could've-beens

“Shery Beneavou, Sir. 24, in years. 24 years in flux.

Kind hearted, with a gentle disposition and a tasteful genetic make-up.

Ideal girl. She’d come home with flowers and chocolates. Balm to a tiring day.

Rosemary pink in spring, sky blue in the summer. A-liners, halters and racer-backs.

The usual girl. Movies and popcorn, apple tarts and cheesecakes with berries on top.

A vague girl. Now, don’t misunderstand me, I pray you, but make an allowance for me to call her a floating paradox. A paradox of conceptions. A genuine, but ridiculous nevertheless, idealist. A cat in a bucket of water. It’s true, sir! A gnawing cat. A pretty combination, a doleful combination…

Insurgent. Like a queer wave on a low tide day. By Jesus, the heroic misery in her voice! Carefully crafted stories of pittance. Careful, but flawed, sir. I could read them all. I could read her.

Nothing in there. Stories give her purpose. Pardon me, sir, but these stories she weaves for purpose. For recreation. Husband ran away. She calls him a lunatic. Oh, the irony. Another story she made up, I vouch for it. Bet on a 50 dollar bill with guys in the ghetto, on the same idea, sir. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t visit such places typically. Never mind this, maunder leads to asunder. In any circumstance, Luna (I will call her Luna, for she reminds me of the moon and lunatics, altogether- and this convenience suits my situation) called her husband an ‘unhappy man’ and wiped crocodile tears when he escaped. A good escape, I would call’t. She also ate the flowers and chocolates, sir. The ones she bought her husband. She ate the flowers wholeheartedly, and gulped them down like cold soup. Then she complained of having none to please. And flowers pleased, and flowers extended happiness, and she had none but her self to extend happiness to, and going by her lunacy, she ate the flowers.

At nights she counted stars. Ordinary, you can say. The next day she called David, her only friend to tell him she saw a funeral in the constellations. David’s grandmother passed away that afternoon. You see, sir, a witch in the making. A wicked prophesier. Thank the heavens she didn’t call us by chance.

I would have twisted her head around. I swear by it, sir. Then she wept at the funeral without any memory of the dreaded constellation. Her cat shuddered the remaining life out of the ones in attendance by chasing them round the hole in the ground. David almost fell in it, sir. Last of the family, last of the lineage. An end thanks to two menacy and treacherous cats. Not a fitting end at all, methinks.

Then David hugged the conspirator goodbye. Foolish David.

Luna liked mountains. Free-spirited traveler. Bandana and binoculars and old diary. Cowboy boots struggling to reach above her knee. She put in many efforts sir, in her appearance, for she was could blend with crowds when unsophisticated. She didn’t like blending. She was a bold streak of red.

Very open mind. Disastrous thing for a young little girl. She kissed a maiden, for Christ’s sake. And then they went about their ordinary lives like nothing transpired. She said she did it for exploration’s sake.

Does exploration have a sake, sir? Correct me if I’m wrong, but We attach a sake to only that which holds utmost importance to Us. Many matters of relevance hold utmost importance to Us as citizens of the world. You ask for examples? I can’t exactly pinpoint at this instant, sir, apologies, but I will do my research. Come up with a list. 10 am ‘morrow. But what I mean to say is, that We must look at the overall race sir, and not primarily ourselves. Selfish Luna.

Words deceive. Everything but ‘tasteful genetic-makeup’ is deceptive. Oh, and her age, dresses, her hobbies and food habits. Never mind the flowers in addition. Yes, safe to say, leaving these aside, all else is deceptive. Her name is deceptive too, and so I already renamed her. Luna Shery Beneavou for you.

All this is to say, she is not kind, gentle, ideal or usual. In exchange she is inconsiderate, brutal, filthy and strange. Nicely summed up for you to inspect, sir. I will admit that by this end I feel a pang of anger and a tinge of discomfort. How can a lass so beautiful be such a drab of a human being, such a mess of all things unpleasant, and all things loathed, and all things shameful? It is depressing to know her sir. It has been depressing all along. And now I am done knowing her. I have only toiled and shed tears, she has only been indifferent and haughty. Her gaze still tells me everyday that she can do better than me. Better than me? Ha! Sadly mistaken, my lady. I grieved for your illheadedness and then I grieved some for my own predicament. This is how I’ve lived, and this is how I’ve survived in this hullabaloo in a world that only inflicts damage!”

Victor finishes. He waits for Monsieur Doug Merci to react.

“Now, won’t you say something, sir? “

Monsieur Merci (after intricate, thoughtful perusal): “All of this is very well Victor, but could you re-arrange the scarf by a little?”

Victor rises, brush and palette in hand, once again. Good riddance, he had thought.