Music Box Dreamer

As soon as they started dancing Bertha resumed the conversation with a question Annie wished she never asked. “Do you love Bertie Annie, really love him I mean. After all he’s a stuck up stick in the mud.”   Ann Foster stopped mid-steep and let go of her sister, “Shush right now Bertha Foster before Bertie hears you.”   Bertha began, “But I’ve heard you tell some of your friends that he is a stick in the mud and dull two. Why do you have to marry him or anyone right now any-way.”   “Because daddy and mother want me too and besides Bertie’s no worse than any other of the young men I know. I mean after all I can’t marry beneath my station.”   The toe of a slipper dug into Annie’s ankle, “Ouch, what was that for.”   “Bertha growled, “You’re starting to sound like mother.”   Annie said, “Heaven forbid,” then giggled. “It won’t be that bad being married to Bertie. In time I suppose he’ll find a mistress and I’ll find a fellow to keep me entertained.”   “Annie that’s scandalous, you wouldn’t and Bertie.s crazy over you.”   “That’s just the way it’s done in our social set.”   “You mean mummy and Daddy, oh no,” Bertha started to sob.   “No I don’t mean them you silly goose, there are exceptions to this rule. Besides,” Annie gave her sister a big hug, “Mother and Father are of a different generation. I think mother is frigid anyway. Have you ever seen them kiss or even hug each other?” She didn’t wait for the reply, “I never have. Now dear more dancing and less talking, then perhaps my feet will still be in shape for me wedding.”

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under fiction, Literary

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s