Re: Third class hallways
Vaudeville does not consider herself a costume. The glass beads that swayed and sang, she won’t reach for them the next day, nor writhe into silk stockings and garters that snap around her thigh. She is self-indulgence doubled back on itself, sobriety sent scolded with a kick to its back. The acquiline cut of her nose is proud, her lips curl back. It’s a smile around a cigarette that’s sharp as broken glass.
“Decency won’t take you far, darling.” The drawl is lazy, it’s the Hamptons in between the syllables, drowsy days beneath the heat and seesucker blazered squires who drink in defiance of convention at high noon. She’s acid as lemon curled in a glass, the sheen and gloss of new money. The written-on girl with her long white socks and her sweet plaid should go and sell cookies, Vaudeville has no sugar for her. “You’ll soon learn that.” This boat is filled to the brim who’ll learn her the lesson, nothing written in books but in fingers where fingers ought not be. The struck-silver glint of her eyes is blowsy certainty that blood will out.
“I’m not dead yet.” More ash gently sprinkles the toe of brown leather.