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[I sometimes get a deep lonely feeling while writing, if my stories aren't at the stage to be viewed - do you know what that feels like? - so I am perking up my spirit by giving you a little slice of Sarah pie! Currently I am working on two short stories, one very long short story called "Jed", and, of course, "Martje", always. <3 Sarah]
The phonograph was playing "We Have No Bananas". He was sprawled on the armchair, upholstered with an offensive pattern of mauve flowers. His feet were over the arm and a book was held high above his head. The room was full of sisters.
"Jeepers. Can’t we shut that off soon?"
"How about 'Over the Rainbow'?" picking up another record.
"But you love Judy Garland."
"All boys do."
"I love..." he said, raising his eyebrows into his dark hair romantically, "Edna."
"Stockbridge?" whooped a sister.
"St. Vincent Millay."
"What! Who? There's no Millay here."
"He means the poet."
"Oh. Well. If you don't start stepping out, I fancy you won't be with anyone," airily.
"That's not true, Minnie!" said Sunny, burrowing her cheek in her brother’s hair. "Jed's going to marry a princess."
“And live in a castle?”
“For your information, Minnie –” he threw his book onto the ground and strung his hands over his eyes, “I am going with Aggie to a dance tomorrow night.”
“What other Aggie is there?”
“What?” lifting a finger over his eye. “Do you not approve of her?”
“I do. So long as she’s not your sweetheart.”
“Well, she’s not. We’re friends.”
“But ain't she in love with you?”
“I dunno,” he said.
"I think she's sweet on you."
"I said I dunno!"
Jed was stabbed by his conscience. He felt he should defend the privacy of Aggie’s heart, but he picked up his book again.
The throb of the poetry became shallow as “Minnie the Moocher” crackled out of the phonograph. He tried to focus on the poetry, to keep climbing the words like a rose trellis:
— Lord, I do fear
Thou’st made the world too beautiful this year;
My soul is all but out of me, —
— but Minnie had a heart as big as a whale!
Hi di hi di hi di ho!
“Can't a man read poetry around here!” he said, slapping his book shut. He stormed out into the night air where he could hear his soul think. The music floated through the parlor window, in softer tones, muted and altered now.