An elegant mid-aged woman tends the humidor at an exclusive gentlemen’s club and drinks brilliant espressos made awful with a spoon of condensed milk added. She tell with regularity an appalling semi-autobiographical tale which I`ve heard a dozen times and will now tell you.
She assures all it`s cautionary, I`m certain it`s no more than dreadful. Still, she swears it would not have been so had she been a man.
Frederick Childe Hassam's Tanagra
He knows how much she feels for she was never any good at coy or aloof and though he bears it as burden, she is nonetheless hopeless against his charm. She wants to be strong, fine her legs and free him from the yoke. He sees it in her eye and he flinches with something like pity. This she could not abide. Yes, she had been pitiable but what could she do? He was her ideal. Her misfortune perhaps but then the fates had been cruel for it was there she at sixty and he no more than twenty-seven had come to meet. He wanted none of what she had to offer but he had been kind and in charity offered her tendre as token but never so much that it would be interpreted as hope. In return for his compassion he was granted all she valued in a sort of rancorous projectile that seemed to haemorrhaged from her every pore. It had been her plan to ruin him with creature comforts but there was futility in it for he never grew to love her and so their end.
My love my care