Someone I Used to Know

Elizabeth

Photo by Amy Shamblen on Unsplash

Elizabeth was a bottle blonde opera singer, a surreal explosion of pink sunshine. She entered rooms like a pop of sugar, a fragrant sunstorm, wearing wide, pleated swing skirts and red lips, trilling arias, dragging bags of perfume samples and hard candies to share. A girly throwback, a colorized princess, she was steeped in celluloid romance and cosmetics. She dated a swashbuckling Argentinian three times her age who said he was royal in his country, and unable to sustain an erection due to an unfortunate bullfighting accident. I saw her once gliding by in his topless car near the National Cathedral, a long scarf trailing behind. Garish glamour, starlet sunglasses, Monroe hair — she waggled her fingers at me and laughed. The memory makes me think of Gertrude Stein’s comment on Isadora Duncan’s famous end: “Affectations can be dangerous.” Elizabeth was a walking affectation. She believed him about the bull.