III. The Empress.

The Coffee Shop—DAY

Inside I slowly look around for either Andrea or Spike and Company. The coast is clear of the latter and the former I spot at length in a booth in the back talking to the Waitress. I stomp over, feet dragging and plop across from her in the booth. Andrea is engaged in a breathless conversation—about me— with the nodding Waitress. She’s set her pillbox on the table and waves the hatpin about like a scepter as she gushes.

“...Big time! You are entirely right and I hope that Frank was just not thinking right. I sure hope that he would have fallen in love with me anytime, anywhere and in any shape—I mean my shape. I do believe in love and that overrides any physical dimension—you know, it is like if I get sick or big or even suddenly really, really mean, Frank should still love me. Well, maybe not the mean part. I know that if he gets sick, or anything, or even if he wears a worn out tee shirt, I would still love him, or as I always tell Frank— I would love him even more.”

Andrea roots around in her purse as she gabs about Us. A flowery diary has spilled out of her bag and I finger it a second then decide I am much too depressed to discover its contents. I am not here. I am out in a wheat field somewhere. A scarecrow. Hollow and alone.

But depression leads way to curiosity and curiosity to guile. If she’s been with Spike or any other man, Her Majesty has certainly chronicled it in her diary. I reconsider, and open the book. But the words swim on the page. Of course. She writes in French.

No matter, Andrea quickly notices, and slaps my hand with the waving hat pin. I pull back. She snatches the book away, and flips through it as she talks, as if to find evidence of all this love she speaks of.

“Frank said he wanted to put me on a throne. He claimed he would even love me if I would be paralyzed and stuck in a wheel chair. He even liked to push me around real fast in the chair in Wal-Mart and not stop for anything that I wanted to look at. It was really funny, I was laughing so much and the people did not know if I was handicapped or not.”

I drop my head on the table with a dull thud. I’ve had enough fond memories for now.

The Waitress exclaims, “Wow, he’s really starting to lose some hair!” and I find her pointing out the top of my head to Andrea. I’ve had enough.

“I am finished!” I yell, standing to exit, “Of course, my hair was the one thing about my body that I liked, so God had to take it away from me! I am leaving!”

Andrea squeaks “Qu'est-ce que c'est?” as I go in the cute way she always does and the Waitress shrugs.

“I said: My hair was the one thing about my body that I liked, so the World had to take it away from me! Now, if you will let such a sad beast blindly, wantonly leave, I am going.”