In the social round
She sits on a pale-green chair. The bow, holding her platinum locks, is in a matching colour. Like butterflies, ready to fly away at the first hint of danger eyelashes flutter on her high cheekbones.
The windows are half-open. Confused noises, filtering inside from the street, choke in the velvety thickness of the scarlet curtains. The hum of conversation, subdued laughter, rustling of precious materials and soft beating of fans fly towards the golden-ceiling dome.
The door opens. You step in.
How handsome you are, Jean-François! A feline! A black Java panther! You glide through the space undulating your slim hips. The light from of the Bohemian cut-glass centrepiece coils your body in sparkling banderols.
A disdainful pout curves your mouth. Do they know who you are, those parrots, those compulsive talkers, that amorphous crowd? Will they appreciate the honour of your company? Will they recognise your talent? Treasure your merits? You avoid the word “understand”. They are no good enough for you! And yet you are writing for them. A writer’s paradox.
Jean-François, I beg you! Don’t try to persuade ME that you write simply to earn your living! There are thousands of other ways! Each and every one is easier!
You are writing to be heard. To prove that you exist. You write therefore you are.
Will they love you?
Will they hate you?
What does it matter?
Just let them feel your presence.
Look at this woman, reclining towards the light.
Change her into words and she is yours!
Fly to meet her, Jean-François! Anne Geneviève de Bourbon, the Princess of Royal Blood is waiting for you to be awoken to love.