Hello, November

The Party-Goer: write

        11/1/18

There's a land that I know, and I go there sometimes.

I walk out to it by myself. I'm wearing a turquoise dress with flowers, and a floppy beige hat with ribbons. I'm wearing brown laced boots, too, that make me taller. When their heels hit the pavement they sound like a horse's hooves.

I'm on my way to a party, with records and turntables and flared skirts.

I walk through a wonderful valley to get to town. Lupine and Indian paintbrush graze my boots. The evening dew makes my hair curl to ringlets that bob in the shadow of my hat. I wonder who will be there, as I step through the black gates into town.

The streets are cobblestone but the sidewalk I'm on is not. The clops of my boots ring among the tall brick buildings. I pass boutiques, shops filled with the loveliest hats and shoes and dresses.

I look down at my boots, feeling the stony rhythm of my steps on the sidewalk. I am distinguished, my face the painting of elegance. I am a deity of cool grace, with a face of unshaken white.

When I enter the door, the hostess greets me. I hear fellow party-goers whisper, "Look, it's the Porcelain Woman, woman of steady china. Look at her arms, look at her legs. She is a song of solemnity that no one can ruffle. But when she steps down from her stilts, look. She's just as amiable as the rest. Oh, don't we have quite the night ahead of us?"

I enter the throng of frilled guests. Laughter bubbles among conversation. Eventually the music begins--horns and large-bosomed women with full voices. The darkness is falling faster outside, accompanied soon by rain.

The party of November, when the gatherings were so divine.

A woman dressed in a white frock approaches me. She passes me a thin glass of champagne, which I thank her for.

I make rounds about the ballroom, inquiring to dance. My fellows often accept, and we sweep across the floor.

One woman asks me where I come from, and who I am. I say I come from a faraway place--had she heard of it?--no, she had not. I said I was known as the Porcelain Woman, with her unflappable demeanor.

"Are you really so high?" she queries, smiling as her gloved hands slip into my bare ones and we begin to sway.

"No, I fear not. My expression I'm afraid has given me a false reputation; I'm really just as you are."

The woman laughs, exposing the pearls at her throat. "A little bird told me you couldn't feel."

"Humans and birds do not speak the same language," I say.

She slides a card with her information on it into my palm. "I live there, if you would ever like to come to dine," she tells me, and then drifts off.

Eventually the crowd starts to thin. A pianist wanders out to his instrument and stool, hushing the singing and the horns. He plays a somber melody, enticing another woman to ask me to dance. I take her hand. She leads me in gentle sidesteps and turns. She's wearing a green silk dress, her tilted hat sporting long feathers. I assume they have been plucked from a peacock.

When the pianist begins a different song, the woman glides her dark arms out of my grasp. She smiles and I watch her white heels carry her away.

I sit in a nearby chair, crossing my legs. Once again I feel my face settle into indifference, though my heart beats fast.

I stand and readjust my hat. There aren't many guests left now and dishes are empty, footsteps hollow. I slip out the door. Melancholy piano echoes in my ears.

The rain is black and oppressive. Water gathers among cobblestone and flicks upon my legs.

I walk back through the town gates, into the wonderful valley. Though November dark has descended quickly, the wildflowers still dapple the grass in bright hues.

Free of the party, free of class, I toss my hat into the air. The wind catches it, tosses it about. I laugh and pursue its looping path. The lupine strokes purple on my calves.

I close my fingers around my hat, returning it to my head.

The rain has changed. It is stronger now, falling multicolored around me. Heavy colors dampen my dress. Blossoms bloom in my saturated hair.

Th storm has broken upon my foolish body, and I run through the valley with nary a care in the world. My face of porcelain cracks.

My hands are light from the touches of others.

NOTE: I wrote this piece as an escape when I was feeling very anxious earlier today. It was supposed to be like someone's perfect fantasy, to be read as if you're wishing to be there. Anyway, thank you for reading! Drop a vote or comment if you feel inclined to.

--KingfisherBirdLady