I'd Rather Go Blind

17th March 1959

Happy 1959!

I did not realize how long it has been! The Extermination was a most profitable one; with so many sinners killed last year, my boys salvaged plenty of usable furniture from their empty houses.

Lately, Sally has complained of my absence from the antique shop... and I am afraid the organizational system has slipped under her management. (How I dread to think of vintage items creeping in with the rest of our stock!) Hence my absence is a matter of mutual discomfort; but truth be told, I have been busy with Alastor. That should tell you how much I love him: more than my beautiful antiques!

His bayou is complete -- my finest work, identical to the real thing, down to the smallest blade of grass! I have also got him playing the sax in more affluent parts of Pride. He has to take transport to get there, dear diary, but he is sweetly grateful for the opportunity.

On Fridays we venture out to hunt, and Saturdays are for dancing or taking in a musical performance. My Alastor is friendly with a club owner called Mimzy, some dumpy creature who died in the '20s. "You certainly are friends with many women," I remarked, a tad suspiciously.

"Women understand me better," he explained. "They know what it's like to, er... how did you put it? Attract dogs? You know, unwanted attention." He waved across the club to Mimzy. "She does like me, silly thing, but she respects my boundaries!"

I couldn't help but imagine my own upset, if Alastor was stolen away in any sense by a blonde meat-sack covered in sequins.

In my last entry, I wrote about relaxing my standards of dress. Not because I want to, but because it is expected: a concession I've made to being Alastor's friend, not to impress him too much. Unfortunately, in semi-casual clothing, more effort is required overall to appear 'naturally' put-together, in a way men cannot detect. Rosie applies her makeup with skill. Rosie's undergarments are delightfully mysterious. 

I'm worn-out from the anxiety of new romance, bien-aimé: the need to polish one's face, fashion, and living quarters, while seeming not to, until true love is assured. It is hard to maintain this for so much longer than usual, and if Alastor should fall for someone who lets themselves go so readily...!

Anyway, I was sympathetic to Alastor's problem with suitors. "Any trouble from Vox?" I asked.

"Hm, a little. I see his face following me when I pass those shop windows. You know the ones with all the television sets stacked up?"

"Ah yes," I said, thinking of the rash of technology Vox had brought to the colony, "he will do that!"

Alastor is catching many an eye, dear diary, making new friends wherever he goes... but how can these people expect to stick? They have nothing in common with my Dc! Many of them came to Hell recently. They don't care for jazz! Some are fresh enough not to remember the first World War!

So far, I have had one positive experience of meeting a friend of Alastor's. Far from being instantly sick with envy, I felt blessed to have witnessed it. Back in February, Alastor met one of his own! As we waited for a tram, a mustachioed sinner in shirt and suspenders came idling up to us and gave Alastor a nod. (Perhaps he knew him from work.)

"Ay, Chevreuil, where y'at?"

And my Alastor converged with this man before my eyes. His posture slackened, he shook the man's hand in some strange way, and his accent was something else altogether. Usually so clear and particular, it became flavorful, and his words rolled around his mouth in a way I didn't know they could. His second mouth, I suppose. The mother tongue. It was barely comprehensible to me, but Alastor and his friend traded it back and forth, kindred spirits.