Another Woolf Gone

Jane, 48, university lecturer.
Shop worker told store is closing.

“When are you going to get your clothes off?” she said.

The grey rain dampened the stone around the Pantheon. The bars were quieter than usual.

A lecturer at the university is to meet her husband within wooden panels. She asks softly her husband to kiss her navel and he obliges. After all it was a difficult day at the office; sales aren’t good; there are going to be some cutbacks; a receptionist or two are going to have to go. He notices her necklace.

“Stacey, can you please come into my office?”

I specialised in Virginia Woolf. Seymour-Smith’s the name and I’m a specialist in Virginia Woolf. My heyday might have been, but my affection is mature.

On the dampened cobbles around the Pantheon, where the bars were quieter than usual, a woman breaks a heel. And the husband, top-button undone, offers his arm, which she gladly accepts. And he thinks of his wife, remembering the traffic before he could see his first born for the first time, and they move on within wooden panels.

The children are sleeping; the maid comes tomorrow.

The wife knows her husband’s kinks… and adores them. They sleep in a bed that no-one else knows.

She’d been at a conference on Woolf that day. LOVING THE OTHER.

He had been driven home after taking some clients out to the Raspoutine night bar.

“Stacey, could you step into my office please?”

Coffee pervades the marble kitchen by a maid’s doing.

A husband’s hand lingers on the wife’s thigh.

“I’ll have to take those shoes to the cobbler’s,” she says, while the children line up to go to school.

A conference on Virginia Woolf called “Loving the other”. The Raspoutine calls, while a wife breaks a heel on the cobbles around the Pantheon.

The jewels are casually resting on the bedside table. More bad news in the paper.

“Stacey, would you come into my office please?”

Where are the female voices? The husband shatters the dreams of another young woman. And it smells of office. Back at home, the couple sits in front of the living room mirror which they’ve made love by countless times.

Sous le pavé, je demeure.

Why do I have to write the last lines of a young woman’s hope? It smells of office.

All this time dominated by men in the emperor’s new clothes and no perfume.

“Stacey, will you come into my office please?”

The wife’s jewels flashes in his eyes, and my cold pen cannot stop recording.

One more desperate Woolf gone; one more cuntish Seymour-Smith still living.

I have to lie to my younger self, screams the boss-man inside.

And do you know what I’d call this? I’d call it a fucking continuation of History.

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