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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required He was reputed to be rich which was enough for some girls. James B Thorndike the fifth, and full of himself to whit. The bluest of eyes stared from under his ebony curls. I spoke to him once, and he treated me like a little twit. He always had a gaggle of giggling idiots hanging on to his arm. He was trim, but small, his feet were the tiniest ever. I frankly did not see any of his irresistible charm. But his gaggle would follow him from here to forever. “What about him?” my visiting cousin asked once, batting her eyes. Because she was instantly smitten, and silly about him. Look down at his feet, they are pretty much miniature size. We could not stop giggling, this James that was more a Jim. He’s looking at us, my cousin Ellie J. Breathless said, shocked. And look at his hands, I threw in. They are the hands of a girl. They were soft all right, and puffy. Not like other hands that rocked. We could not stop laughing as another straightened his curl. He is not nearly as polished as a fifth should be. He needs to shave too. I pointed this out to women who had come to my party to gawk. His shoes are not genuine leather, I said. And his eyes are not so blue. Why did you even invite him? One asked, seeing him, and going into shock. Our mothers share a bridge club, a Bible study, a book club and a tree. The other girls were giggling, heading to him like moths to a light. I had to invite him I said to no one, “for my mother made me.” He is not nearly as handsome when you live next door and he is a blight. James P. Thorndike under pretense of drink, came over and glared at me. What are you telling them? He asked me. My neighbor and forever best friend. Nothing much, I admitted, looking at eyes bluer than the sea. Knowing full well, he would be my forever after in the end.
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