45/52 Feast: Breakfast as Timothy

Wishing the holidays could be decorated, rather than being decorated for them.

I, Timothy, pick up the pearls and wishing to whirl them round my neck, do my best part to carefully replace them into their bowl and corresponding shelf as names and body parts dance oddly behind my quiet refracted and fractioned self.

Bonnie. Jeffrey. What’s the difference between these? Gender. Pronoun. A coupling to boot.

What is identity? Truly, Tiffany thinks. She amuck in thickening thinks as she plucks the pearls once more from the dish. To feel these, to be in the presence–but beautiful items are not missed by the masses and this second coming has not gone without noticing. The clerk astutely tuned into the presence of presents and all the commission this can bring, chimes in like the holiday bell she on the hour sings winds and dings. This, with a presumption that often fits into her favor, “is there a special missus back home?” For holiday shopping. Naturally. But natural selection has failed the process of this as she, Tiffany, places them back in the dish with a simple, “something like that.” For its the voice of Timothy that speaks. But the brash desire to cling them to her neck is squashed by the overwhelming perception that she is a gender which natural selection has misguidedly selected. Misguided, and a present of pearls she can not bare to buy in the weight of such idle trough beats.

Instead she placed the desires and worthy proprietors on hold to follow the Bonnie a true lady from other shores, throughout the widening, multi-tiered store. And little does she know that as Bonnie shops, she dreams herself of being someone else, of being in possession of the royal whizzing worries that a length Dan possess. She, Bonnie dreams of ocean linear, a flattened shore and chest, for Bonnie followed wishes she was her betrothed Jeff.

If only the two ducks could shop for each other rather than the costume of themselves, perhaps the holidays wouldn’t need so much sugar, so much to presently digest. Perhaps the spices would be more mild and the world would be bright as casually it gleams for all as it is in the delight and the safety of home, as well as public space, pearls and shelves. The shell of yourself if is an unwavering clone. And all that is left is to be happy with that expressed. Identity, what have you. Does what you see match the heart within the beating chest?

A bead of sweat falls as the two follow one another, dancing the dance of wish, of bliss in being in the shell of the others self. And for a moment they are but the other. They are, if not just for pretending. Daydreams. A difficulty in a world so unprepared to accept the truths of those rising, instead we choose to befall, existing solely in the daydream. More so do we exist often in this world of none, this world is better–the one we dream. Oh the wish for this holiday is to decorate the stockings rather than his and herself in their wrongly labeled stockings.

They think this in a moment as they stare, following one last glance to one another, Tiffany’s pearls and Jeffrey’s leather belt and golden cufflinks. But, it is but Timothy and a Bonnie… and with this they walk with packages to present homes, well established, well mismatched and boring.

But they, at night, will thrive in the moments of existing. The beautiful secret watching in secret wonderful meetings, for what they wish was not to watch but to walk in the shoes of each other’s footsteps. There they can walk, in the daydream.

There they live and thrive. Till sudden wakenings.

Good morning Anna.

Good morning Jeff. I’ll exchange the shell for the coffee I’m brewing.

If only. If only. Until then, Breakfast as Bonnie and Breakfast as Timothy.

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