Host

She spins.  Tilted slightly, she has leaned this way or that for an eternity.  It is a dwindling pirouette, slowing imperceptibly over eons.  Does she grow weary of this endless dance? Does she become sickened, dizzy?  There is nobody to witness.  No single being with the clarity of vision, the distance, the empathic perspective. 

Stars wink, conspiring, but she knows that their light is only an echo from a distant time, a recording of love, played over and over until it's original intention is blanched and inconsequential.  Black holes gasp, their apparent shock a tunnel of absolute emptiness.  There is nobody, she reflects as she twirls around and around, the black velvet mantle of perpetuity her only comfort.

She itches from within, an innate dirtiness.  She is weary and infested.  Something is utterly wrong.  Spinning and spinning, leaning resignedly to one side she retrieves a distant memory.  All is not lost.  There is something that she can do.  Her everlasting dance is written unto the law of everything, and there can be no rest until time itself grants her the mercy of death. 

But for now, there is a way!

The filthy prickliness within her has broken the hypnosis that her everlasting waltz keeps her under. 

It is time, Gaia knows, for a shake-up.

      'Jean-Pierre.  Jean-Pierre.  Jean-Pierre.'

Diane was determined to get the pronunciation just right.  Without too much effort.  Trying too hard would make a mockery of her accent.  You had to try even harder to make it obvious that you weren't trying at all.  Diane loved croissants, but never ordered one when she was having coffee with Margaret, because of the pressure of execution.  'Croissant' was tricky.  Not that Margaret had the sophistication to care, poor lumpy cow that she was.  Unkind, Diane! 

      'Jean-Pierre.'

The more often that she articulated the deliciously chic sounding name, the more it tripped delightfully off her tongue.

Guy didnt love her anymore, of that Diane was sure. 

She remembered the early days of their courtship, when he would bring her small things.  He was never showy or dramatic, and that was a good thing, a permanent illustration of his good taste.   Wild flowers that he had collected from the university grounds on his lunch break, or articles cut lovingly from publications, things that he thought might interest her.

He had once bought her a pair of topaz earrings from an antiques fayre.  The earrings were dusty, but once soaked in a vinegar solution they sparkled like dying suns.  Diane had really wanted to wear them, but they were just a tad too heavy and made her earlobe sag like ugly, elastic dough.

Nowadays he didn't love her.  He didn't even see her.  She could spend an hour preparing for his return, a nice dress, perfectly applied lipstick, a strong drink tinkling with raspberry infused ice.