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 the general of 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 ask 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. Just random holy yap. Started in: July 12, 2024 Finished in: probably never
