Cinderfella

Standing in the wings, on the periphery of her cultivated world, inhibited only by station and space, my head slowly spins into her orbit, my eye lids twitter nervously, my titillated ears vibrate, my hands tremble, inner being disassembles, kneeling in deep contrition, my flattering pose, covered by plebeian skin, without merit or standing, not in her purview, goes unnoticed. Straining to capture a meaningful memento of her regal essence, if but a quick glance, token gesture, two or three words spoken in jest, but, alas, no comely features with which to attract even a passing stare. Shriveling in her presence, my net value laid bare. On my crown, a matted toupee, a disheveled mound of bristled fibers. No sterling jewelry to sparkle in her turquoise eyes. On my wrist, a cheap sports watch with a plastic band. My colloquial speech contains no majestic refrain, her delicate drums to tap, and no rhythmic cadence, her cochlear bands to serenade. En-wrapping my taut form, the trappings of a commoner. No velvet suit or silk cuffs, her refined fingers to address; no cashmere slacks, only a stiff pair of unpleated Dockers to brush up against her glimmering, polished legs. But, at my lowly base, a pair of Dolce & Gabanna wingtips, exuding a waxy shine, casting an enthralling glare, a magical spell with which to cloud her discerning eyes, and to dissuade her genteel mind. With one lengthy stride, I introduce my intentions. Her condescending eyes now peel away my pretentious threads, and, with an outstretched hand, beckons me to her side, presses me against her throbbing bosom. The lurid dance begins, ending only after the darkness filters the floss of my wingtips from her dilated eyes.