January; Tuesday, ؛1963 ؛ Moscow
Good morning dear Ed. Now that I'm writing this letter to you, the girls are choosing their gowns for the New Year ball, but I still have a stupid expectation for him to come and extend his hand to me like a French Monsieur and ask me for a dance; Although I know the Hectors' girl is going to have that pleasure, but at the bottom of my heart, a small corner says that maybe if I become more beautiful, he will choose me.
But how can I be more beautiful? I put my hair in curlers and wear a white and gold corset, along with the lace blue dress Mama had sewed for me.
If her father is Mr. Hector, the Banker, my father is a general in the army, there is virtually no difference in wealth. So it's not money. I'm just uglier.
But believe me, if the arrogant Baudelaire boy asks me for a dance, I assure you that I will empty my drink on his clothes. I want everyone to know I'm just dancing with my Monsieur and him only.
I'm running late, Ed, the rest stays for after the celebration. I hope I don't cry over any boys.
; Love, Thea Dante, for the riveting man; -
YOU ARE READING
The Fig Tree
PoetryA series of a teenager's mental secretions, living through the distorting lenses of a bell jar. Inspired by Sylvia Plath.
