Dear Diary,
It is the day of Mr Fairweather's Birthday Ball.
I sent simple greetings which will arrive upon his true birthday, which is the 15th, and then tried to cast it from my mind, and failed most desperately. I tried to sleep this afternoon to hasten the passing of the day but only succeeded in acquiring a headache. This evening has been the worst with visions of him greeting and hugging those nearest and dearest to him. If I close my eyes I can see his smile lighting up his face and lying now upon my bed can well remember the feel of his arms about me in joyous embrace.
Someone once said "Unrequited love...It doesn't change, it doesn't grow up and it never dies."
Come sleep! Numb this heartache!
Kristin Chenowith - Home
14 years ago
4 comments:
Ah, Ned, may you soon find true love in the midst of German balls!
And don't forget, if you pass through France, there's someone who has smiled at you!
-h
My dear distant 'Harley?'
I am concerned about your memory. I can see how you could perhaps forget the manly treasure that is Sam, the village blacksmith and his rippling muscles, but to forget that I am, in point of fact, Wayne and not Ned is of great worry to me. I fear you are indeed under great pressure from Belinda Sue Darcy, the harridan who hunts you, and you are greatly distracted by constantly looking over your shoulder.
"Someone who has smiled at me in France?" Do you mean Emmanuel, who also laid his lips upon me, or are you referring to another?
Yours in anticipation,
Wayne Austen
No, fair Wayne, I merely had a senior moment, thinking of you but writing of Ned...
Verzeihung, as (some) Germans say.
And of course I meant Emmanuel!
-h
Dear Wayne,
I am so sorry you are suffering so much turmoil thinking about Mr Fairweather and your deep feelings for him. I only wish I could console you.
Sympathetically yours,
B.
Post a Comment