"There is never a time or place for true love.
It happens accidentally, in a heartbeat, in a single flashing, throbbing moment."
― Sarah Dessen, The Truth About Forever
Chapter One
My Fair Lady
Twilight – a time that had always been utterly captivating; the air so wonderfully crisp, the sky a perfect portrait of blurred hues, the fresh twinkles of night's diamond necklace. It had always been the most peaceful time, a time so blissful after a day of hustle and bustle and ruling over a lucrative empire. For Monty Burns, twilight was perhaps the only time which he felt truly young again, reborn like the glimmering stars overhead.
He drew in a content sigh, his hands clasping together in glee as he strolled the ever-darkening streets of Springfield, which were lit only by the delicate glow of strategically-located streetlamps.
"Ah, twilight – what a shame I couldn't have captured you forever," he spoke to himself, reminiscing about a time when he'd once tried to cast the town into perpetual darkness.
His eyes gleamed as they fruitlessly attempted to count the stars and then turned to take in the luminescence of the streetlamps. It wasn't until a particularly blinding light caught his attention that his awe and joy quickly soured, his hooked smile drooping along his chin.
"Blast!" He cursed in his own manner, impending the reddish glow with angry intent. "What in blazes is spoiling such beauty of a night like this? Why, if I had my way, this whole town would be made to realize just how – eh, what's this?"
The light, that burgundy glow that just moments prior he so deeply despised, came into a sharper focus as Burns found himself standing before an elegant poster, framed in gold and surrounded by a series of flickering bulbs. His brow arched, observing the advertisement and rubbing his chin as he read the bold print.
"We cordially invite you to join tonight's showing of Hamlet," he muttered before tapping his chin, his smile returning as he continued his promenade toward the doors of the dusty theater that paled in comparison to the beauty of the poster. "Hamlet, eh? Why, I haven't seen that play since I was a lad; well, let us just see if this generation does it any justice."
A tiny scoff of skepticism flited from his chest as he approached the cramped ticket booth, which had begun to deteriorate, for its velvet trimmings were soured with mold and mildew.
"Yes, one ticket for tonight's showing, my good man," Burns confidentially demanded as he propped an elbow upon the ledge of the booth, his expression smug as he fully expected a comedy rather than the tragedy that was promised. However, instead of a ticket stub sliding across the ledge, there was only silence in return for his jeer. "Ackhem! I believe I asked for a tick- oh," the elder trailed off as his eyes opened to reveal an empty booth, which appeared untouched except for by time itself. "Well, it probably isn't worth the money anyhow. I suppose there's no harm in taking a quick peek, after all, I am 'cordially invited'," he snickered as he mocked the ad.
His steps that had once been leisurely and intentionally drawn out had become hasty. He hurriedly came upon the broken doorway where he'd expected a set of golden-handled glass doors, shrugging off the disappointment of luxury as he cautiously ducked into the pitch black building.
His pupils struggled to adjust to just how desolate the theater seemed, thoughts of paranoia swarming in front of his decreased vision. He cowered, hands anxiously rolling over one another and knees knobbing in toward each other, as his blind walk led him down the spider and rat infested corridor adjacent to a room that was wafting with music. Finally, as the paranoia subsided, his eyes regained a glint of that twilight-dreaminess, and his pace quickened toward the melody.
He fought amongst the sea of men that filled the crowd, sharp elbows pushing toward a vacant seat, which was one of the only in the theater. His boney frame was a far cry from the muscular, strapping men that suffocated him, and he shrank into the hard metal chair. He chuckled nervously to himself, drumming the tips of his fingers together in tune with the music.
"U-uh, quite a full house tonight, eh, gentlemen?" He proposed of the two men closest to him, eyes shifting betwixt them. "This show must really be some spectacle."
"Ha! You got that right, grandpa," one of the oafish men boomed, throwing a crushing arm around fragile shoulders. The strangely-cladded man continued his boisterous snickering as his shady eyes drifted in gesture to the only noticeable figure upon the stage. "Just look at the melons on that broad – amazing how they make 'em so life-like these days."
"Oh, yes! But, of course, in my day, women were satisfied with their – err, "melons", as you put it, just as they were; none of this plastic surgery hoo-hah."
An exchanged glance between the two gentlemen caused a nervous sweat to bead along Burns' depleted hairline. However, a sudden riot of laughter from the men had set him at an awkward ease and he contributed his own pathetic titter. The trio carried on for a moment longer before the man to Monty's left shushed them in a harsh scold.
"You two numbskulls, shut up, would you? I don't want to miss a second of that little beauty's number."
Instead of fussing about the name calling and asserting his position among the community, Burns gave a bashful smile and shriveled into his seat, fearful of the mammoth muscles bugling along the other's arm.
"Yes, yes, of course," he faltered with a repeated nod, "not much use in a play if one doesn't pay atten-,"
"Shush!"
Obeying the command, Burns folded his arms grumpily atop his chest and allowed his eyes to drift to the cold, darkened stage. His eyes instantly moved to the spotlight that fell upon the woman the obnoxious neighbor's had ogled at, and it was immediate as to why – short brunette curls framing a well-chiseled face (which was powdered and blushed in all the right places to accentuate the pouty, ruby-lined lips and large doe eyes), a pair of perky bosoms that peaked just above a trim of lace, a waist tightly cinched into an hourglass that surely stole both her and every suitors' breath. Monty's breath was no exception, baiting at the mere sight of a woman who had yet to speak or even move; she simply was, and that was more than enough to stir a wonky flutter behind protruding ribs.
"The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remember'd," a manly voice boomed from the blackness.
The woman then heaved a breath as the light broadened to reveal the entirety of the stage and the man who had spoken standing firm and center. She approached the man with a gleam in her eye, beckoning to the raven-haired Hamlet, and a gentle smile played upon her lovely features. And, after what felt an eternity of suspense, she spoke from those precious garnet lips, "good my lord, how does your honor for this many a day?"
And in return, Hamlet acknowledged the woman, but unlike the lead that waltzed across the stage, Burns did little acknowledging – at least in terms of the plot. Monty had his sights set on finer things, as he often did in life, and his eyes stayed transfixed upon the gorgeous, sharp-cut face of the woman. His mind drifted, the stage slowly vanishing as his visions turned inward and it was suddenly he who stood atop the ratty stage.
He stood mighty, prestigious, a hefty sword hoisted high above his head in spite of his ever-fading strength. He cleared his throat with power and he hooked an arm about the tightly-cinched waist of the one dubbed Ophelia.
"Is this a prologue, or a posy of a ring?" Burns – no longer Burns, but the troubled Prince Hamlet – cited what he recalled of the literature he'd read long ago.
"'Tis brief, my lord."
Burns nodded, "as woman's love."
The fantasy of that powerful yet feminine face, the ideals of sharing the stage with such a wonder, the very thoughts of playing opposite such a fair lady was suddenly tossed away as a roar of claps pulled the elderly man back into the damp theater. He shook away the remainder of his boyish desires, and his frail hands slowly, distractedly began to clap. His eyes were captivated by the portrayer of Ophelia, only to lose the image when the lights dimmed and the stage became seemingly non-existent, and his heart slunk into the pit of his gullet.
"Ophelia!" He beckoned in a whispery shout, talon-like fingers reaching toward the stage before curling to rest thoughtfully upon his lower lip. Monty rose from the uncomfortable seat, cramped and sore, and began to maneuver his way through the crowd. He scowled with impatience as they blocked his path to the lovely actress for whom he'd felt simultaneously smitten. "Out of my way, you brutes!"
A small group was gathered behind the seedy curtain that had fallen to conceal the stage. The heavenly vision of Ophelia sat atop a wooden crate containing several props, peeling away the shoes that caused her feet to throb, as the others chattered.
"Jew know," the Hamlet from the stage spoke with an accent as thick as his well-manicured brows, "I think we did a pretty good job on jew, Ophelia." The name was spoken in an almost teasing manner, a sort of jab at the woman sitting atop the crate.
"Very funny, Julio," the woman spoke with an unexpectedly deep, monotone voice as she massaged against her aching feet. "I'll just be happy to finally get out of this dress."
A feeble clearing of a throat from beyond the curtain drew the attention of the actors, "and such a fine dress, it is."
Eyes darted swiftly, the woman's doe-eyes growing wider, toward the man, who peered around the aged velvet before walking backstage.
"Um, who let jew back here?"
"Julio," the woman retorted in a somewhat stern yet skittish voice, standing upon her calloused, aching feet and approaching the familiar man, "p-please, I'm sure he's just a harmless fan."
"Indeed," Burns snapped with a smirk at Julio, who rolled his eyes with impatience before noticing the actress' trembling. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to speak privately with Miss – um, my sincerest apologies, I didn't happen to pick up a playbill on my way in…."
"I-it's, um," the woman stammered as a fit of giggles erupted from the crew behind her, her heavy brow knitting at the fiery gossip that followed suit. Her head snapped viciously, chin to shoulder, and she spat in a whisper, "oh, will you all just shut up?!" The heavily-powdered face then returned to face the unexpected visitor, and she forced a quivering smile. "Um, it's," those dazzling eyes trailed over to a bag that was slung over a nearby chair, noticing a familiar doll's logo plastered on the front, "Maribelle…? Yes, Maribelle Stacy! It's a pleasure to, err, meet you, but I really must be going."
"Yes, I understand, it can be quite the pain being so rich and famous," Burns agreed with the utmost understanding as he extended a veiny hand toward the woman. "I'm C. Montgomery Burns, but please, call me Monty."
"Oh, well, it's been a pleasure, Monty, but like I said, I have to go," that awkwardly monotone voice explained.
In a painful twist of the feet, the woman scurried over to the chair, grabbing the bag that slung from its back, and hurried toward her dressing room; however, in a bid to excuse the rude actions, she called from the distance, "sorry, I've just… um, I've just remembered I have a very important meeting to get to."
The men who lingered after their leading-lady's disappearance sustained their laughter before Julio sauntered toward Burns, grabbing the pointed shoulders and escorting him in the opposite direction toward the exit.
"Jes, jes, our little Maribelle," he started with a stifled giggle at the name, "is always go, go, go!"
Burns resentfully tugged away from the man with a disgruntled huff and began his descent from the stage, heading toward the exit with eyes adverted toward the ground.
"Maribelle Stacy," he murmured to himself in a pondering tone, "a bit generic for such a stunning woman, but knowing this generation, I suppose she's one of the lucky ones."
Maribelle Stacy was busily streaking off the thick makeup applications with countless wet wipes as she sat atop an ottoman before a vanity. She grunted and groaned, desperate to be rid of the goop that had inadvertently created a chain of disastrous events.
A half-stifled laugh from the doorway of her dressing room earned a groan from her chest, which had flattened considerably after the padding and prosthetics had been removed.
"So-oo-o," a somewhat high-pitched voice drawled in the manner of a giddy schoolboy, "that's the Mr. Burns you're always talking about!"
"Oh! Shut up, Stewart!"
"What's dee big deal, Waylon?" Julio interjected as he entered the dressing room behind Stewart, placing a hand on Waylon's broad, bare shoulder. "It's not like he even noticed it was jew."
Waylon ignored the statement, though it had a way of weighing heavily upon his mind. He continued to scrub his face, turning jaundice flesh into raw scarlet, as he grumbled to himself, "I can't believe I told him my name was Maribelle Stacy. Ugh!"
"Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back.
Those who wish to sing always find a song.
At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet."
― Plato