Music Box Dreamer

Thirteen-year-old Bertha Foster tugged for a third time on the sleeve of her sister Annie’s blue dress.   Ann foster turned away from the window, away from the heavy raindrops hammering on the glass, “What is it moppet?”   “Gee Annie you looked like you were on mars or something. Remember you promised to teach me the Samba today, remember? You haven’t forgotten,” the usual smooth forehead was puckered into deep furrows.   Still half lost in some fanciful day dream Ann Foster only heard a few of her young sister’s words. “Uh, what was that moppet?”   The teenager stomped her right foot, “Earth to Annie, you promised to teach me the Samba today.”   These last words dragged the twenty-two-year-old woman back from her mental wanderings down secret, romantic paths. “Sorry, I was just thinking.”   Bertha didn’t wait for her sister to finish. “That was some deep thinking sister dear. What great problems did you solve?”   “Oh I was just thinking about the wedding and my life afterwards,” her bosom tightened against the white silk of her blouse and nearly popped the top button. She heaved a big sigh, “Now for your Samba lessons dear.”   The words wedding filled the teen’s jade green eyes with tears. She couldn’t stand the thought of her so much loved sister moving away and out of her life. It didn’t matter a bit that the move was only two blocks away. It didn’t matter that she had a standing invitation from both Annie and Bertie to come and stay as often as she liked.   It just wouldn’t be the same. Not the same at all. Bertha knew she would miss the late night visits full of girlish giggles after their parents were in bed. There would be no more going into her sister’s room after a nightmare filled her sleep with terror. She sniffed and wiped a stray tear away. Bertha put on a happy, forced smile and looked up into her sisters big, mid-summer-sky blue eyes. The thought of crawling into Annie’s bed, scrunched in-between her sister and Bertie sent ice cold fingers racing up her spine. “Are you excited?”   Another sigh escaped rosebud, kissable lips. This one loud enough to make her father peer over top of his brandy glass before taking another sip. When there were no more loud interruptions he went back to his serious conversation with Robert Jones, Ann’s intended.   Annie opened the door on the big oak desk under the phonograph and rummaged around for the samba records. She eased the black vinyl disk out of its cover and placed it over the spindle. Being as careful as possible Ann set the needle down onto the first grove of the record. The large bay window rattled as the sound of the Samba filled the big parlour. Bongos, bass drums, a duet of snare drums and the swish, swish of a rattle, set her willowy body in motion. Hips, round, plump and perfect, pressing tight against the fabric of a blue dress swayed to the rhythm of the music.

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