Tonight she is Scarlett O’Hara,
her hair licks her back like a forest fire.
There is some variation
depending on the movie they’ve seen,
but she is always the Leading Lady.
Why settle for less?
She is a firecracker, a wild card,
untameable. She could never be
the wife at home, even if he asked.
Frank hated Gone With The Wind.
It was too long, for starters,
and his back ached in those seats.
The ticket prices seemed to creep up
each week, while the movies
went through the same, tired motions.
He was getting tired. Of course,
Betty loved it, had reached across
and squeezed his hand in the dark.
He was only giving one-word answers –
how she hated that. Refused to look
her in the eye. Wanted her to cover up
that scarlet dress, worried
someone would see, even though
they are far from his side of town.
Tells her to slow down on the drinks.
When he’s in the bathroom,
she orders a double.
Betty longs for a fur coat, doesn’t see
the point of any other fabric. Wants
to bury her face in soft mink, brutal fox.
Frank only ever buys her chocolates
which she used to enjoy. She hasn’t eaten
one in months. He’s staring into his drink,
chinking the ice cubes, oblivious to
the painter outside, with his eyes on Betty.
She checks her nail polish, fluffs her hair.
She’s somebody’s leading lady, alright.
(based on the work of Edward Hopper)
All content ©2009 Lizzy Dening
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