Saturday, December 21, 2013

For Mr. Spector

By Elizabeth Dunphey

Before knockout hostess supreme Lana on her back, all that honey hair spinning under him.  It was super beautiful Ronnie, locked up with a rock stah maniac….   
Ronnie and the jet mascara and long-long part Cherokee hair.   She was something.  Love, love, love.


Lita was a spectacularly gorgeous little b*tch, she thought.  A Spanish Harlem princess masterpiece.  Standing in the school bathroom, inserting a tampon (a Nabakov touch) with all the other Puerta Rican girls.  Her voice could sing, and it was a touch raspy and modern to be considered Harlem gospel.  It was a new rock voice.  She met her neighbor and he took her home in the country too afterwards to show her his pianos.

This is how she she go ready for the prom:  took a hot iron and flattened waves and waves of ebony hair to her hips.  And then over that the beige Diane Ross era Mahogany lingerie that some boy she never wanted would see.

Ryan, she hissed.  They stood on the subway, and she felt a little fat around the olive tummy, even if she was skinny and model-like.  A real rich b*tch, the girls teased her.  I have to meet Jason.
Jason brought her back to Westchester, to his wife's pad.  It was a mansion actually, and the scent of WASPs were everywhere.  A cold Irish woman, whatever he was, and pretty good looking, in that red headed way.

Drink bourbon, he sighed.

They played songs all throught the dead winter night, and she pushed at the hem of her green gown.  Her dark and pale skin tone poked out.  Of course.

Halston, he said.  i'll buy one for you.

And she smiled weakly.

It's a fake Halston.

Oh, for you darling, only the best.  Perhaps, more?

The kissed in the light of a dim song by the Stones, and she rested her black maned head in his lap.  Lita felt so in love with the moment she could die.  
On his wall was a poster of a model, with wavy blonde hair.  It was nearly the 80's, when that look would rule and end the regime of brunettes on the street.  The ethnic De Niro movies would die.  It would end all like this cold cold night in the heart of January.

Goodbye, honey, he said to her.

And they never knew each other again.  Ever.

Elizabeth has modeled, written stories forever, and loves winter.  Read more of her in the Eunioa Review and Milk.

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