Let Me Tell You About My Friend
a Curious Sorts story
written by James Douglas Ashelford
performed by
the Mistress of Ceremonies
In the little performance hall behind the pub, a room he’d thought was empty, the spotlight comes on with a flicker and sizzle of lazy electrics and the performance begins.
It’s a one woman show just for him. A woman walks out on stage, emerging cool, confident and unhurried from behind the black curtain. She wears a man’s suit of conservative cut made just a touch racier by her own measurements, it was made for a man somewhat… slimmer than her in certain areas. She weaves in and out of the shadows on stage as she makes her way to the spotlight, crossing into areas so dark that her black suit and gloves rendered her almost invisible save for her pale face, white shirt and cuffs.
She steps into the light, up to the microphone, so close she almost seems to be kissing the metal head. She dips her head a little, dark hair falling across her eyes and shadows growing down the length of her pale, painted face.
‘Let me tell you about my friend John Smith,’ she offers, speaking softly into a mike that isn’t even switched on. ‘Let me tell you about a man who falls in love with everyone he meets, it seems. Let me tell you about the fool who rushes in, who was bleeding when I first met him because of a woman he had only just met whose… ahem… honour he was defending.
‘He has long hair that he cuts off at the shoulder with kitchen scissors,’ a ghost of a smile flickers across red-painted lips then, and with a hint of disapproval, she adds, ‘when he remembers to. He has style when he wants to and has some claim to dapper but most days he throws on whatever’s available and clean.
‘A man who’s all love cares little for himself when his ideal of love is selfless. This explains why he has no good shoes and his trousers are always too loose. At least that brown jacket he wears has some style, tragic story though it might represent.’
Her audience looks begrudgingly amused, taking a seat at one of the little round tables just in front of the stage. He smiles and keeps his eyes on the MC as she stands ramrod straight in her spotlight. His eyes tell a different story: her monologue is frustrating to him, patronising, leaving him on the brink of hot anger. He listens, though, and even pays greater attention as the MC’s head snaps up and he sees the look in her eyes: intense, a flinty grey gaze with a real force behind it.
‘Let me tell you what living for others does to you. Let me tell you about my friend John Smith who has been knocked down again and again, disappointed and betrayed by people he shouldn’t have loved, left behind, used, defeated and broken on a rack he builds for himself more times than not. He gets back up again and falls in love again, gives his all to anyone. He bounces back again and again and no one would know to look at him how many shards of his soul lie left behind in the dirt where he fell. Let me tell you about my friend John Smith who sits in dark rooms behind the bar instead of out amongst the conversation and music and humanity because one of his endless loves has broken his heart again.’
He topples the chair getting out of it and the impact ricochets around the hall. He reaches for the door and finds his way blocked.
‘John,’ she says in greeting, licking her lips, leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe, neatly blocking his passage.
‘MC,’ he acknowledges curtly.
‘You’re back.’
‘Visiting.’
‘Sulking.’ That flash of a smile again: mocking, affectionate, knowing, annoying. The MC exhales and John becomes suddenly conscious of how close she is, her breath raising the hairs on the side of his neck, rattling in his ear and her heat very tangible in the cold, empty room. ‘You should be out in that bar bending Felix’s ear, out-doing the lad Shakespeare on bravura insanity, weaving your charms on poor frustrated Switch and wearing Anne’s last nerve. Down and despondent though I’ve seen you, you always used to find time and energy to get on Anne’s last nerve. How broken is your heart if you don’t care enough to make that sweet girl want to strangle you?’
In another world this proximity might be exciting, in this one it is a trespass.
‘Welcome back,’ and with that she walks away, back into the shadows of the hall, ‘and good luck.’
WRITER’S BOX
This story was inspired by the prompt from one of Deviant Art’s 100 Theme Challenges. This was #1- Introduction.
