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Julianne :
Hello, George.
George : Hey, gorgeous. Having a good time?
Julianne : Not particularly, but I did what I came to do.
George : What? You
split them up?
Julianne : No, I said good-bye.
George : Good girl. I'm proud of you. I'd be prouder
still if you were dancing.
Julianne : Hmm, I have a big plan for dancing. Just
give me 30, 35 years.
George : Mmm. The misery, the
exquisite tragedy. The
Susan Hayward of it all. I can just picture you there
sitting alone at your table in your lavender gown.
Julianne : Did I tell you my gown was lavender?
George : Hair swept up. Haven't touched your cake.
Probably drumming your
fingernails on the white linen tablecloth.
The way you do when you're really feeling down. Perhaps
even looking at those nails, thinking. "God. I should've
stopped in all my evil plotting to have that
manicure."
But it's too late now.
Julianne : George, I didn't tell you my dress was
lavender.
George : Suddenly a familiar song. Then you're off your
chair in one exquisite movement. Wondering, searching, sniffing the
wind like a dapple deer. Has God heard
your little prayer? Will
Cinderella dance again? And then
suddenly the crowds part. And there he is, sleek, stylish. R-r-radiant with
charisma. Bizarrely, he's on the
telephone. But then, so you. And he comes towards
you. The moves of the jungle cat. And although you quite
correctly sense that he is... gay. Like most
devastatingly handsome single men of his age are. You
think. "What the hell... life goes on." Maybe there
won't be marriage. Maybe there won't be sex. But, by
God. There'll be dancing.
George : Bond. Jane Bond. |
