Dorothy meets Dorian

Dorothy is a nice girl, a good girl, with an almost genteel, suburban feel to her. Most would say so and I would tend to agree. The cynics would say about the proverbial pinch of salt, but girls used to make me kinder and women weaker; emotions I have long since forgotten. I only know how to act them out now, and girls like her make me wish I didn’t have to.

She is not very gifted, she is mildly intelligent and she still has faith in her education. More importantly, she says a lot and she has a nice smile. A person who talks a lot is always easier to understand. They let you in through the doors of their mind; if you are curious enough and stay around for a while, you might as well land up in their sanctum sanctorum. I didn’t have to though.

And the smile, the right smile. Not one of those thousand-watt-bulb smiles which would light up a stadium and set a million hearts aflutter. Definitely not one of those smiles which flicker on like candles and make you feel sadder for the crooked lips, than the possessor. A bit like one of these modern CFLs: economic in terms of effort, yet efficient in terms of effect. How I wish I could have swayed and swooned.

But why is life such that something always jumps up and bites you, when you are hoping and expecting it won’t? It’s never easy to write about other people’s secrets. It’s even more difficult to write about than yours. Sufficient to say that I just stumbled upon a secret: not a huge secret. The huge secrets are generally too huge for me to miss for so long. Not insignificant either: like the flakes of dandruff you brush off your shoulders when you think no one’s watching. But just the right size: the dirty one’s all of you have, and hope, no one ever opens the closet.

So there she was, stripped to the soul in my mind. I had to do it; to help her to get into the new garb my mind had tailored for her, and as always, I experienced some perverse pleasure from it. And, goodness, this does fit her better than the earlier one. She doesn’t still fill it up, but I know she will, she will only grow.

But she can’t win now, not anymore. I know too much about her, about everybody, to lose. I am impenetrable; I am irresistible; only my soul fleets in and out through my guise. Victory bears no significance; vanquishment looks enticing. Permanence is purposeless, yet defeat is an option I cannot take. But I hope somebody wins. And puts me out of this miserable existence.