Beau Brummell in suede.
Coxcomb mahogany, dandy black.
Leather brogue; frankly, butter.
Hazel and yellow head, solid gold.
Wet lips of magenta, or, amaranth—excuse me, excuse me, now I see them pale.
Old-world politeness, oh, how I misseth thee! His words lined, double-lined, flexi-winged; to fulfill his duty, for her pleasure, for my—oh, never mind, he never prevails!
Ripples of jealous twangs, that filthy heart of mine, when he walked about the room. Nodding, waving; Napoleon, his name. How I longed for that golden pup! Nuzzling against my feet and mine, mine, mine! But look how much you've grown! And how strong you've become! Eyes of honeydew, once, but algae—proud, sickening algae—now. Dead then alive, hot then cold, then, then, a grin? But of course! He loves, loves, loves me!
Do you want to know a secret?
Do you promise not to tell?
Let me whisper in your ear.
I never loved him, and I never will, but his heart flutters and mutters and moans—and he's mine, mine, mine!