Imitation: Molly, Milly and Boylan

    Boylan arrived early. Casual blue suit, light hat. He scaled the stairs with gentle ease. Milly! Go get some milk and meat. Better to preserve the façade.

            Mr. Boylan! – starting to enjoy fucking him. Music first? “Let’s get to it.” Smile like a mirror. Desire, shame at once. Maybe we’ll just sing. No. No going back.

            The routine was going well. Her voice on top of his. Rehearsing the climax of Bartell D’Arcy’s famous love ballad. The melody flows smoothly, seamless nohw. There are traces of love in his pitch. But not in his tempo, too rough; made her feel cheap, their tryst a simple exchange of favors.

            What was Boylan, Who was her husband? Music couldn’t atone for everything. Too much pain, too many reminders all about. Bloom’s suffocating foreskin, his unbearable deference, limitless as his ignorance. All of it depressed her, even Milly. Maybe her mother had been right, maybe -- it was time to embrace and hear about his struggles. Money squabbles, paranoia and, of course, his unfulfilled dreams. Men always had such unreasonable goals. But then, what else did one have?

            She glanced at the two photos on the dresser. The life she chose and the dreams it stole. They co-existed in a peaceful way. The pictures, like the dreams behind them, had had the best of intentions; they never quarreled then, no sense starting now.

            Milly. Her voice radiated in the day. Tickled even the most decrepit soul. Perhaps the vessel intended to deliver Molly’s inner-most hopes. But it was round two, and Boylan was filling the holes at present.

            Milly had heard the muffled pleasure sounds before, but the carnal euphoria went without restraint in her absence. Grizzly noise. Shrill smack of flesh. Too vivid. Something had to be done.

            Milly approached her mother’s room. Sinful door. Illusions of human fancy unwittingly brittle on each side. Mommy near climax.

            The filth was thicker under Milly’s gaze. Ego death. Masses of tangled humanity connected my intimate flesh. His throbbing erection. Her grateful vagina, slathered in the juices of love. Extensive pause broken, privacy restored.

            Molly lay in the sweat. Stunk of heartbreak. Dresser. White gown, fans and the charcoal piano player; the comfort of promise. Loose gown, three forms and two smiles of naïve idealism. THE END.

            Made the mirror. Womanly curves, mother’s daughter to the eye. Father’s portrait in the reflection. Pity over her left shoulder. Subdued orgasms scratching her soul’s left ear.

            They finished. She came. He inside of her. Her idea. Faked it. She more than he.

            Down the stairs, out the door – And where? Darkness setting in. Her father’s hat. Bobbing with a gay purity. She would wait for him inside his gate.

            Upstairs practicing was over. She hoped music would go on. Did it for the music anyhow. Voice slipped, needed a talented partner -- Right? Professional departure, formal greeting. Three souls at dinner. A portrait. THIS is life then? The End?