He's coming. Today he will come. Today he will definitely come.
Today he has to come.
I wrote his invitation in my most beautiful handwriting. I was in person in front of his house to throw the invitation into his letter-box. But I was too afraid to ring his door bell. But I heard the letter clatter onto his hall-carpet.
I bought a dress. I do not like dresses so much anymore. But I know that he likes dresses on me. All the secretaries stared at me admiringly. If they could have me, they would not hesitate to pin me one of the desks and push the endless ruffles of the wide skirt aside. I have ordered the best Hair- and Makeup-artists to deal with my looks. He's going to smile when he sees my earrings. He has gifted them to me years – decades, no centuries – ago. I will make a dramatic entrance. I will cascade down the marble stairs. He will gape at me. I made sure my secretaries would make sure that he would hang around the stairs to grasp my hand when I reach the end. Like a gentleman. I have to change my shoes if he asks me to dance. He'll probably say he's an old man and can't dance anymore. But he has to.
He is not here yet.
They have all lined up to present my presents to me. I do not even know half of these people. I sit on this stupid chair like the queen of… The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Where is he?
It takes hours.
The time he is not here stretches along the height of my birthday-cake. Briefly speaking: Endlessly.
The whole debauchery of this party is useless if he's not coming.
"Emily, why are you crying?"
The United States of America are crying.
The United States of America is crying.
Emily is crying.
I have resisted the urge to screw it all up for a long time. For all the time he hadn't been here yet. For all the time we have been apart.
I grabbed my first secretary by the collar: "Where. Is. Arthur Kirkland?!"
"I'm sure he'll be coming in the next hour."
He said that the last time too.
He said that the last times.
He's saying that since he's alive.
I've had enough.
Enough of the lack of Arthur Kirkland.
Arthur Kirkland.
My secretary laughed awkwardly.
"Maybe we should go outside? The fireworks are starting soon."
Arthur Kirkland, The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, entered to an absurd scenery. Accidentally enacted, of course, just for him.
There was no one to push the heavy two-winged oak doors of the mansion open.
There was no one in the huge hall on first glance.
"Excuse me, there was no one at the airport to pick me…" his words echoed through the emptiness.
A small frame sat on the polished floor, next to a baseball-bat. The rose-white ruffle dress pooled onto the floor, next to a broken equally rose-white cake.
There was a small fire burning at the buffet where the overthrown candles had lit the stack of napkins.
The small person sobbed and raised its head.
The eye-makeup was running down her cheeks, the mouth and hands smeared with cake.
Arthur Kirkland gaped and pushed himself onto his walking cane.
"So… do you mind telling me exactly what has happened here?"
I have gotten my present.