The Glass Menagerie
Collaboration between thebeautifullypainfulretrospect and jlangblues89
Disclaimer : The characters Rory and Jess belong to Amy Sherman-Paladino . Any reference to Tennessee William's play The Glass Menagerie is purely coincidental .
There is something oddly interesting about girls who dress like boys . The tired frizz of their hair and the old , baggy pants suit them as a second skin , and they are almost swallowed by their own façade . They grasp cigarettes tentatively in their hands, the fading glow matches the glower in their eyes as they stare at the flickering fantasy in front of them. They are interesting in the way this girl is intriguing .
The innocence of her looks clash with softjagged edge in her eyes . There were remnants of her in those eyes .
He remembered the pale pink of her straggly hair and her wrinkled , wizened face as she puttered about the shelves of where the old bookstore used to be. Muttering insistently about how Salinger was much better than Esquivel anyway but who could really tell because they are so different and I am lost and is lost and . Deep down to where he couldn't hurt he felt sorry for her . Not knowing sanity . But in retrospect , sanity was her and in this girl .
They dance as if they're in slow motion, and he can't help but watch. It feels wrong --so wrong-- but he can't stop. He knows that some of these girls shouldn't be there, but they are. They're there, and he's here... and the bartended just slid him another. He shook his head slightly as he watched. This is the great American dream.
She is tired, and the music is throbbing through her veins her eyes her head. The music never stopped never waited- just went on (and on), urging her to continue. There iss something painful about that. She can never escape. It makes her want to lay down on the floor, and just lay there forever. What else is there to do?
He leans towards her, motioning for her to listen to what he's about to say. She stands there and looks at him. He mouths something, but it's blurry and she can't understand. The air in the room grows colder --someone opened the back door-- and she shivers. Only for the reason to become warmer, she sits down next to him. Her back is rigid and her hair is pulled away from her face. Teacher, teacher.
'Hey,' he says simply. She looks at him. He's slouching in his chair, his beat up shoes pressing against the legs of the table. His leather jacket is worn and frayed. He doesn't look like anyone she's met before. That's the only criteria she had to make, and she did.
So she says hey, too.