an obscene act

an obscene act

fiction
edward w pritchard


It had been so so long since I had looked upon Justine. She was at theater in the small town to our north when I espied her. I felt someone staring at me. She was adjusting her opera glasses when I looked over that way.

She was with someone. Tall and handsome naturally. I made her walk over. I took a small piece of red ribbon decorating the rail near where we stood talking and attached it lightly to her left wrist before I walked away. She had that look in her eyes again but I knew it was time for me to leave.

As I walked out I knew Justine was staring at me as if I was the character in the play. For effect I twirled my black cape, eyes forward, purposely high stepping into an unknown future. As if on cue I heard the audience in the theatre roaring in applaud as I exited the dark building.

With one desperate glance I swept the crowd with my eyes for Justine but she had been swallowed by the darkened Theatre.

Outside a menacing horizontal rain pelted our coach as my driver and I raced back towards Paris. The chateau would be warm and there would be heated brandy to cap off a night at the Theatre Royale.

The sloshing of the carriage wheels drowned out the residual sounds from the company performing at the Theatre that still reverberated across my thoughts for several days as I remembered my encounter with Justine.

Often I have wanted to act, to command the stage to mesmerize with my presence.