The Price of Being Patsy

One dark blue-skyed evening, she went out wearing a lovely green dress. She had bought it for that other day, a long time ago. Beautiful she was, and all the more so she looked that still evening. Patsy had let go. Let go of the holds on her thoughts. The bitch of memories, she had booted out the door. The banjo played a chirpy note. She needed a melody that night, the song, a drink, a smile, an invitation. The banjo played again. He was playing it like it belonged to no one else. The stool tall on which he sat, his legs angled casual, the hat at a predictable tilt. The glass she held with colour liquid, a pale gold, shimmering. She set the glass down. Her heel clicked against the hard cold floor. The banjo was playing its last notes. Patsy walked on, the rhythm mixed with the look he kept on in his eyes. Higher and faster, she walked and higher and faster the banjo’s solitary crescendo cried. There were four lines to the song left. Conversations could then move from songs and eyes to words and silence. Above the banjo, over their song, her footsteps sounded loud. And urgent.

Patsy was out of the room. The banjo, their song, he; they were behind the door. The bitch was back.

And Patsy paid the price of being herself, yet another night.