Gertrude

The President of the United States called last night, he spoke most curtly, demanding to know her middle name. She sent him packing with a stinging rebuke. Her middle name is Gertrude; that secret she will take to her grave. Powerful people have always sought her out. Edison visited in the summer months, he proposed many times, but a man that would electrocute an elephant just to make a fake point could never have turned her head. Poor Topsy. She enjoys the half-light now, dreams of other voice that had wooed her. Sometimes she spies little Gertrude peeking over the foot of her bed, but she is not at all ready to permit her existence. Elderly hands cover eyes. Gertrude has taken on a life of her own a neglected life but still able to come when called or to follow behind or hide in the middle of those other names. The lady has kept many a romantic secret. Most of her best erotic memories she has written down with a fine cursive hand, she keeps these missives in a carboard box under her bed. Perhaps with a tinge of remorse, upon the box lid, she has printed the legend: ‘For Gertrude when I am gone.’