My final letter to you, in prison
I was thinking about Lena Horne today and that old song of hers: “Stormy weather, since my man and me ain’t together.” I was singing that tune months ago when I had the scary birthday; I was so lonely with my man behind bars.
Well, today, it’s official, Bear, you are coming home. But I must be cautious; I must hold my heart back, until that man of mine is finally in my arms. Looks like it won’t be until the weekend, since you have a meeting with that awful Amy St. Eve. I mean, really. Bangs at her age.
I just got a call from the lawyer, who says you will have to fly coach on the way back, but fortunately you won’t been accompanied by a U.S. Marshal this time; those people are so tedious. I was trying to engage one of the Marshals in a conversations about Madame Butterfly, and he told me he used to keep Monarchs as a child. Such a plebe.
I’ve got just enough time to go out and get a manicure, but oh, I’ll have to endure all the stares. Those women just cannot understand how I can still be so beautiful. I tell them I had myself cryogenically frozen. It’s only a half-truth. But the Botox does work wonders.
We’re running out of money, Bear, so I was thinking of having a yard sale. We have so many wonderful costumes from the masked balls we used to attend. But looking around this burg, it seems women are only interested in glittery tracks suits, and most don’t have the money to pay for my wonderful clothes. Ever since that Bernie Madoff incident.
I was very glad I didn’t have the money to invest with him in the last few years; he was such a charmer. He once tweaked my cheek in the cloak room of the Trump hotel. But who can blame him?
Conrad, oh Conrad, what will we do? My extravagance knows no bounds, my cleavage knows no boundaries. My intellect knows no equal — except for you, of course, darling. You, Bear, you have always been my cuddly beast, but now you are just my beast of burden. Financial burden.
Perhaps George could lend us some money; I’ve loaned him enough over time. I got him all the good jobs, but all he did was spend his money on Hungarian cigarettes, cheap whiskey and cheaper women. I have appreciated his counsel, over the many long months. He’s quite a gifted left-hander. But then, you know all that.
That’s behind me now. The pool boys, the cable television collectors, the tennis pros. I’ve had my needs; sometimes I’ve had to pay, but it’s you, you, it’s always been you.
I don’t know if I can wait, my darling, for your return. I long to feel those chiselled pecks and glutes – well, at least prison did you some good — and I cannot wait to meet you in the Jacuzzi tub with a glass of drugstore Pinot Grigio. It’s all I can afford now.
Come to me, come to me Bear. I await your touch, your whisper, your love.
Yours, B.
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Rose Simpson
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