Mrs Dalloway, lifestruck

Tell me about me, she said. Just do it. Tell me whatever. And I would start with her love. I would describe the easy mornings with french baguettes and marmalade. Bread crumbs between the sheets, in her grey hair, on her moist arms. I would continue by expressing my admiration of her way of arranging the parties, her famous gatherings, where everyone felt welcome, where everyone looked their best, was their best. Because of her. I would adore the flower arrangements, the setting of the tables, the mangled stainless tablecloths. She closes her eyes, relaxes her body into yesterday, into the parties and the intoxicated atmospheres.

There was always an open book beside her bed, sentences underlined by this anachronic neon marker, which didn't fit at all into the gloomy baroque room, stains of coffee on almost all the pages. Marked by life, hit by its brutality. She would always read the morning after, that was her way of debriefing.

She said that I would be alright, no sleepless nights anymore, no morning, no pain. I know my sight is blurred. I'm lying on the mattress on the floor, in her gloomy room. I don't remember if the sun is shining, or what day it is. Letters spread all over the floor, my arms can't reach them anymore. They're stained by tears, the only thing connected to the outsiders. (She's not far away at all, she'll be coming up the stairs to rescue me. She'll break the window if needed, if she for some reason cannot get in, to the green room, to the room where my body resides.)

That's all I know, feel, see. I have ink on my hands, arms. I'm Mrs Dalloway and I'm gonna buy the flowers myself. Don't worry, dear, I can handle it, she says (I say). Then she leaves the room. She has a party to attend to, her whole life rests upon its success.