golden

four: constellations of the flesh

In his own modestly humble opinion, Harry was not a suave Casanova. Women didn't fall at his feet with praise, beckoned only at his smile. They didn't worship him at the altar of their beds or conform themselves to his every wish and whim. He was, after all, only sure that kind of fella existed in films. And he gave women more credit than most.

He knew better than to underestimate any woman on any day. Their minds melting pots of ideas, quick wit, and unimaginable depth. More than pretty faces and swished skirts, hair ribbon and floral pattern dresses. Perhaps he was a radical in that sense, in giving women the credit they were due. In his stubborn belief they were meant for more than an apron in the kitchen three times a day and two and a half children.

There were women all over who stepped up during the war and did their part. Who went to the factories while their men were storming cities and shores. Women who played baseball as a source of entertainment for their country. Even now, after the war, some remained at work. Schoolteachers and secretaries, nurses and phone operators. Harry only believed that all jobs available to men should be an option for women as well.

So, no, Harry did not see himself as the hero of a romance picture. Casanova he was not, he couldn't lie and completely dismiss his way with women. They liked them and on occasion, he liked them back. He'd never had a serious relationship to the point he considered marriage an option, or even thought of saying those three words. He appreciated the fine art of womanhood and embraced willingly the daunting charm of it all.

But to love a woman was to subject yourself to a lifetime of heartache and misery. Love was the steepest of all bluffs, the sweetest of candies, the sharpest of knives. He wasn't yet ready to impale himself.

At least, not until he saw her.

Elizabeth Dandridge.

Her name from her own lips a spiral of golden fresh honey. As soon as it fell from her lips, he saw it in flashing lights. Curved letters forming the name of a goddess, enchantress, woman, surrounded by dusted pearl bulb lights. A future Queen of Hollywood. The future Queen of Hollywood.

Her name from his own lips a cascade of fortune and good tiding. The promise of something good and perfect and warm. A name thousands of other women had, but they didn't wear it quite so well as she.

Sleep escaped him that night as his mind ran rampant with the picture of her. One always so attached to his night's rest, he didn't mind so long as her face glowed behind his eyes. Her name a prayer he bespoke over and over, tongue failing to grasp in the way hers had. Perhaps all words just sounded better from her mouth.

He would believe that to be true. She could have cursed him to Hell, and he would have fallen to his knees in thanks.

All his experience, all his knowledge came to an abrupt disappearance in her wake. He bumbled and staggered, flushed and grew warm in her presence. Her divine existence vexed him, put a spell on him, left a curse only she could cure with her words and delicate smiles. She was the illness and the medicine all at once.

Elizabeth Dandridge, in that dress of blue gossamer. Butterflied sleeves that ghosted at her elbows and matched the ones in his stomach that exploded with flight at the sight of her.

Elizabeth Dandridge, her impossibly dark eyes on him as he sang. Plush pink lips stretched into a smile to knock the air from his lungs.

Elizabeth Dandridge, who drank water only, save for the singular tea she ordered at nine-forty-two.

Elizabeth Dandridge, a string of diamonds laid against the freckled base of her neck, matched by two pieces in her ears, a bracelet on her wrist. Diamonds that were outdone only by the spark of her smile, the shimmer in her eyes. The sound of her laugh.