Ms April, the girl with the sparkling eyes, eyes that sheepishly dart this way and that, her demeanour bolder than before, surreptitiously and now with a composed air of nonchalance, purloins, in defiance of The Laws of Physics, the small crystal blue and green orb that is the conscious ‘The Universe’.
From the shelf, she places it gently and with circumspection into her tatty handbag. Walking off briskly, her anxiety veiled in a mask of contrived confidence she makes her getaway…keeps the promise she made to humanity long, long ago. She begs good fortune that no conscious being or form, especially so The Adjudicator, a wicked man, had seen what she had done.
Unbeknownst to her, that wicked man in the fedora and dark glasses was vigilant; ever watching; absorbing everything, tailed her out of The Shop of Dreams, through the mall toward the cemetery of old legend via which she might succeed her getaway.
Later, at the taxi rank he of wickedness takes the cab next in line to hers, all the way to her home; all the way to her front door without her knowing. Blissfully unaware initially, she puts the key in the lock, then senses someone…maybe something…was watching and waiting for her. She glances over her shoulder…nothing.
Later still, early evening, she takes a shower; dons a bathrobe; reaches for her bag; looks inside. “Yes” she inaudibly bellowed, ‘Yes, I still have the orb”. Between thumb and forefinger she raises it to her lips upon which she places a single kiss, then returns it to its new resting place afront the wood burning fireplace.
A knock at her door. She takes no notice. Then a fierce banging, a fist most likely. Still she ignores the racket…hopes it, he, they, whatever, goes away. Not to be. He smashes the door in. Gains access. Within the blink of an eye, the man in the fedora and shades stands over her imposingly. Bared teeth; perfect teeth he does not say a word, merely matter-of-factly holds out his hand. In a nano-second she panics notwithstanding, she still manages to consider all options. Seemingly, there were none in her favour. With reluctance she delivers up ‘The Universe’ and places it in his leather-gloved palm. He nods his approval; slips it into his coat pocket and takes of his leave.
All things considered it could have been worse, much worse, for her kiss…that single caress…had restored love and balance to humanity; to all living things across all of time. Her kiss, you see, was born of féminin magic, for that is the way Ms April’s very own extraordinary magic works…nought else.
Even this old fool…an atheist by considered choice, yet respectful of those of different convictions; each to their own and no war of words…sheds a tear or two listening to this ‘divine’ song, ‘From a Distance’, especially so given the state of the world today. Such a wonderful lyric, sung so well by Nanci Griffith who died last August.
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