Marilyn

Pertaining to the beauty of youth, she was something of an obsolete expert. But when her hips felt like butter in the middle of April, all moldable and deceivingly tasteful, she was a mastermind in the rawest sense. Her lips, like chocolate shavings on a chocolate frosted chocolate cake, were a little too rich for the poor man to handle. Without a diamond adorning her every breath, she was unhappy enough to pretend that she was middle class in order to feel love. She met herself, all reflected like a grimy mirror, in a lovely man on the subway one afternoon, with her fur wrapped close to her slender shoulders and her breasts like pillows, and no matter what the honesty that hid underneath their made up facades was, they could’ve been the advertisement of the way the other half lived. Her cheeks and eyes were 14 carats and his teeth were pearls from the Mediterranean Sea. It was a little bit more than serendipity that they found one another on the season’s closing night, with glimmering stars even this far underground, so when she stole his heart and tucked it deep into her clutch, resting beside a notably blue box of diamonds from another man whose effortless wealth held her attention for long enough to prove that she was still a material snob, nobody was surprised. He slid to his knee beside the homeless man, muttering about the hibernation of the human race, and he watched her golden aura shimmering in the muted lights, and told her that he would never find another like her. She didn’t know her name. He didn’t know his. They only knew of a little spark of fantasy that they had found in that moment, manipulated by the senses to be something more of a beautiful memory made up of black-and-white film moments than anything that could’ve been manufactured by the Gods at all. It was much more man-made than anything else in the questionably close proximity of tomorrow. They stole away that night into the black velvet sky and red satin sheets of the hotel room with a veranda along the French quarter in the city that slept in the morning. The jazz music was still falling into her pillow when the bubbles from the champagne began to flatten and the only thing that made it worthwhile was the way that it warmed when it went down and the wonder that it wove around her head. He looked like the sun and she felt like the moon. It was the romance of a society of thieves, all built to take everything they could and give nothing in return. They would hold on to the effervescence of the locked doors and safes with no code until the old folks died and they became the generation who knew better after all.