That Last Chance Class


You know that practised smile, the air-hostess smile so beloved in the world of the antiseptic greeting? Miss Laura had it and could look on you and then move away before you could ask if her manner was sincere, or meant just for you, or a mere reflection of your longing, but luck was not on her side the day I joined her dancing class.

I was lonely and desperate, and for some years I had lived as a recluse, through force of circumstance rather than desire. One evening, an advert in the local newspaper caught my eye and here I was holding Miss Laura in my arms, and seeing her eyes, warm and nurturing, then wary, then alarmed as she looked up at me. I could almost hear her refined and polished instincts whirring into action as she sought a way to extricate herself from the arms of this odd creature without creating a scene.

I hung on to her a bit too long and her eyes, with that gentle seriousness I had seen before in other girls, made the unspoken suggestion that I was threatening to embarrass myself and her until, like some piece of refuse caught briefly by an overhanging branch, I was released from my hypnosis and freed her from my grasp.

As I let her go, her eyes hardened as if to say, “I do not waste my warmth on men like you” and to be honest there was a guarded, careful quality about her which was at odds with her apparently social and generalised manner.

I had been a wealthy man in my time, and used to employ a modesty of character combined with an expensive wardrobe to attract those whose company I might enjoy. Up to my mid-forties I had been considered sensible, balanced and particular, until a certain Maria Gratzia, who boasted among other things, that she was a distant descendant of Lucretia Borgia, caught my eye: which outlandish claim was given some credence by her subsequent conduct.

What she had against men, or mankind in general, or just me, I cannot truly say, but once I lost myself in her, she married me, took half my wealth, my reputation and my peace of mind before leaving me to find consolation in uneasy solitude brought on by shame and balmed by any drink I could acquire.

We all have unsavoury, grubby aspects to our character do we not, and she managed to fillet out mine and make it general knowledge to excuse her own conduct, which it did; leaving me, now a pariah, to steal into the obscure seclusion from which I had failed to free myself for close on a decade. At last, the longing to be absolved, touched and recognised gradually possessed me until I had made this unbalanced attempt to renew my social life.

I was like a man dying of thirst who stumbles into some fine restaurant and gulps and slurps from a carafe of wine without ceremony, revolting the diners with his display of unpolished appetite, as was my brief and awkward dance with Miss Laura until she saw the hunger in my eyes. After a while recognition overlayed the hauteur and she said, “Mr Longestine, please do not come back here again,” and I left as quickly as I could. Secrets laid bare can haunt us all our lives.

About Peter Wells aka Countingducks

Trying to remember what my future is
This entry was posted in character, creative writing, Fiction, Humanity, Peter Wells, Uncategorized and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

12 Responses to That Last Chance Class

  1. catterel says:

    You seem to have discovered a hitherto unknown circle of Hell that Dante overlooked, filled with sad, lonely people – or is it just limbo? Anyway, I’m still waiting for you to bring them all together into a gripping story!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. beth says:

    the tragedy continues –

    Like

  3. Scarlet says:

    I’m desperate for a happy ending now!
    Sx

    Like

  4. The perils of confession! Best to bury secrets deeply…and never make a map!
    Great tale, as ever.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Al says:

    Not the first, and most assuredly not the last, tale of unrequited amorous adventure. Disenfranchised of social standing by one woman and abruptly spurned by the next. A lifestyle worthy of a Shakespearean play, but I doubt he could have related it better.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. nelle says:

    Well done. Some can get lost in a netherworld, no matter the catalyst that got them there. As a society, we are not really accommodating of reentry.

    Liked by 1 person

  7. tiostib says:

    Dogs are much more dependable sources of love, although, in my experience, they don’t do well as dance partners.

    Liked by 1 person

  8. Robin says:

    This is so good Peter. I’m still hanging on to the phrase…”like some piece of refuse caught briefly by an overhanging branch…” That is priceless!

    Like

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