Charlotte Buchanan, 05 Aug '12
I thought you might like this. I don't want it anymore. It's not that I don't think she's gorgeous because she quite clearly is. I've even met her - that's how I got this photo of her. But I don't want it anymore.
We were out somewhere in France last year and someone said he knew a place we ought to go. We went. Cheap beer and pretty girls. The girl on the other side of this was a dancer; spent much of the night sitting on my knee in her underwear. She put on my hat and made it look...well, see for yourself. That's one of her tricks, of course. I woke up the next morning with empty pockets and this photo. I must have thought it the photo was of her in my hat, taken that night, but really there wasn't time. Just a scheme to make a guy feel special.
I only got cynical yesterday. Until then, I'd been in love with the photo, convinced she really was "dreaming of me" like she's written on it. I'd kept it with me for a whole year. Me and this photo...we'd had some fun. Every time the boys got letters from home, it'd be all this moaning, "little boy's got measles, there's nothing to eat, can you send some money?" I never had to put up with any of that. Photo can't moan, can it? You just pull it out of your wallet and remember how her skin felt. But yesterday, one of the boys got a telegram. His wife was dead, killed by a bomb. What he felt, I didn't feel. I never could. It hit me suddenly - it's only a photo. Might not even be her under all that makeup. And whose is that hat?
You have it, mate. Another for your album. Enjoy.
We were out somewhere in France last year and someone said he knew a place we ought to go. We went. Cheap beer and pretty girls. The girl on the other side of this was a dancer; spent much of the night sitting on my knee in her underwear. She put on my hat and made it look...well, see for yourself. That's one of her tricks, of course. I woke up the next morning with empty pockets and this photo. I must have thought it the photo was of her in my hat, taken that night, but really there wasn't time. Just a scheme to make a guy feel special.
I only got cynical yesterday. Until then, I'd been in love with the photo, convinced she really was "dreaming of me" like she's written on it. I'd kept it with me for a whole year. Me and this photo...we'd had some fun. Every time the boys got letters from home, it'd be all this moaning, "little boy's got measles, there's nothing to eat, can you send some money?" I never had to put up with any of that. Photo can't moan, can it? You just pull it out of your wallet and remember how her skin felt. But yesterday, one of the boys got a telegram. His wife was dead, killed by a bomb. What he felt, I didn't feel. I never could. It hit me suddenly - it's only a photo. Might not even be her under all that makeup. And whose is that hat?
You have it, mate. Another for your album. Enjoy.
Comments · 7
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Charlotte Buchanan said...
Anthony Blackshaw said...
To derive this I did have to read it through a second time. The problem with such a short piece is the reader doesn't have a lot to go on and can be unforgiving, whilst in a longer piece they might be more patient and wait for further clues to be revealed.
Charlotte Buchanan said...
Charlotte Buchanan said...
Nathan Ramsden said...
In that vein, I'd say you seem to know what you're doing and therefore should carry on writing like you want to write. I like this piece.
bill spencer said...
Angela Watt said...