Lolita's Perception

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗

Friday: June 5th |1947|
After nearly two days of going back and forth over it, Mother finally agreed to take me swimsuit shopping for the summer. I couldn't wait. After all, I for sure thought I was gonna get the cutest bikini in the world: with polka dots, and lace, and—

Of course, those dreams were instantly crushed into thousand of smithereens once we actually got to that terrifically towering department store down on Fifth Avenue. From the very second we walked through those glittering glass doors that seemed to swing every which way, Mother marched straight over to the bathing suit section; she spent less than a minute looking around, before holding up a plain black bikini, and coldly remarking, "Well, I suppose this will do."

"But what about these?" I frantically wondered, pointing over to the rack of brightly colored bikinis I actually liked. With cherry print, and gingham, and lots of lace—like the ones Betty Grable wears!

"This is more....conservative." she matter-of-factly said, holding up that boring old black swim suit Betty Grable wouldn't be caught dead in.

With an annoyed roll of my eyes, I defiantly crossed both my arms over my chest. "Yeah, right. More like boring."

Despite my protests, Mom still bought the swimsuit—but I guess it didn't really end up mattering all that much, because the very second Professor H. caught just a glimpse of me wearing that sleek black two-piece, his jaw practically dropped right to the floor.

He was sitting out on the back porch when Mother and I showed up in our brand new swimsuits. Admittedly, he was looking better than ever as he read from today's paper, and smoked from a glossy, ebony tobacco pipe.

Like the sparrows that flitted from tree to tree, I flew to him. These very words left my lips as I leant down, my sun warm cheek brushing up against his ear:

"Can I see today's funnies?"

But before he'd even gotten a chance to say a single world in response, I had already yanked the comics straight out of the newspaper—and in the blink of an eye, I was over on the lawn with Mother.

I laid on my stomach, enjoying the vividly colored comics in contented silence. My bare feet swung carelessly in the air: swaying back and forth, along with the gentle breeze that rustled the leaves of elms, which towered overhead.
While Mrs. Talbot's dog was still barking from four houses down, it didn't really seem to bother me anymore—and soon enough, I'd tuned out just about anything that didn't have to do with bright bubble letters, and vividly colored cartoons of fictional characters getting in fights over the dumbest of things, only to make up two panels later.

Ever since summer had rolled around, my hair was finally long enough to fall in lengthy ringlets resting against my shoulder blades: sleek chestnut curls, warm from the sun's golden rays.

Soon, I realized I could still hear the phonograph playing from the living room; a tragically classic tune left to go on and on, for what feet like eternity. Every single time the music came to an end, the needle would skip for just a moment or two, before repeating the song all over again.

Despite the marigold sun that shone brightly from overhead, the garden was soaked in a pale, apple green light:
a reflection of the endless plants that were both surrounding and shading me.
It was was strange: sad, and dreamy, and disorienting all at once. No matter how hard I try—no matter how many words I look up in Mother's faded old dictionary, or how many details I give—there's still no way to really and truly explain the way that light made me feel.

I guess it's just one of those things you can't ever really talk about...

Seemingly out of nowhere, my mother's deceivingly honeyed voice hit the warm summer air. In the end, I wasn't even paying attending to whatever it is she was saying. Something or another about a light—maybe asking Humbert for one?

Probably. I mean, lets face it: she can't go five minutes without sucking down half a pack of Dromes. Who knows, maybe it's just 'cause she has a crush on the guy from the ads. If that's the case, I don't blame her. After all, that guy really is cute—he looks almost identical to one of those dreamy old movie stars from the 30's...

But sadly, the guy from the Dromes ad isn't here. Instead, there's Humbert:
the strange(ly) handsome, middle aged professor with just about a million secrets, and a serious staring problem.

I'm not kidding when I say that: even at this very second, he's staring right at me. Of course, he's pretending like he's not, but every few seconds I'll catch his gaze lingering for a whole lot longer than normal. He's always so focused: studying every little detail—as if he's getting ready to paint some sort of grand portrait. But instead of going to a canvas, he reaches for his notebook: thinking he's being conspicuous as he begins to messily jot down whatever it is he's so desperately trying to hide within the pages of that little black book.

Sometimes I wonder if it's ever about me: about the things I say, or do, or even the way I look—but that's just dumb, isn't it? After all, there's plenty of stuff to write about, so for him to choose me of all things would just be...well, strange. Maybe even impossible.

Still, I not going to pretend like I haven't thought about it at least a couple times...