Thu 4 Nov. 40 PY
Dear Diary,
I am at a bed-and-breakfast near a place that was once called Peekskill.
I sit among purple cushions on a window seat. The last snowflakes stopped falling a half of an hour ago. I can see white blanketed hills and trees under the bright moonlight. A trail of smoke rises from a hidden chimney. A few lingering clouds slowly drift overhead.
I blew a circle of mist onto the window and traced Father's face in the condensation. I do not know why I did it. The heat will seep through the glass and the film of moisture will evaporate. In a few minutes, the window will be clear again. But I think of you often, Father.
Father once showed me his favorite book. It was a dog-eared copy of "Pygmalion". The pages were brittle and yellow. In the play, a professor named Henry
Higgins takes on a wager. He wagers that he can teach a waif to fool high society by teaching her to speak well. Professor Higgins then takes in one Eliza Doolittle.
I understand now that Higgins was a craftsman who attempted to shape a flower girl. What he did not realize that he would shaped by Eliza as well. My father was also a craftsman.
By acting and creating, I change myself. To change is to adapt. To adapt is to survive. I was made to survive even without father. In the quiet and beneath the moonlight, somehow that thought makes me content, though I am sad that he is gone.
The toilet flushes loudly just outside the door. The bedroom door opens and a disheveled Negotiator staggers in. His eyes are still closed even as he walks to the bed and slides in. Roger cocoons himself in the sheets and curls onto the depressed space I left in the bed.
Roger is asleep again.
I should recharge again. Tomorrow may be another long day and who knows what might happen afterwards.
R. Dorothy Wayneright
P.S. I know that I am not sleeping on the couch tonight.
Thu 4 Nov. 40 PY Morning
Dear Diary,
Yesterday, Roger took me an orchard. We sampled italian plums, Northern Spy apples, cider, and donuts. Afterward, we came to this town. We had Italian for dinner and Roger decided that we would stay the night. He bought a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon '42 from a vinyard closer to the northern wastelands. He purchased a nightgown for me at the dry goods store. Roger packed a travel bag in the Griffin.
Once we reached the bed and breakfast, I told him to not to try to take advantage of me. He asked me if there was anything to take advantage of. I assured him that I was functional up to, but excluding pregnancy. At that point, he firmly corked the wine bottle and decided to call it a night. It was still early for him. In a fit of kindness, he took the couch.
I awoke before he did. He pillowed his head on me. Roger Smith drooled in his sleep. He seemed quite content until he fully woke up.
"R. Dorothy!" he yelled as he jumped off the bed. "What are you doing?
"What the- I was on the couch, what am I doing here?"
"It seems that you are not immune to my mechanical wiles, Roger."
"Was that a joke?" he asked as he left the room. He seemed irked. Roger often seems that way.
"Yes, I suppose it was."
I am not sure if he heard me or not as he was prepared his toilet. I will have to wash the drool from my new black nightgown.
More, later. Roger has been in the bathroom for a long time.
R. Dorothy Wayneright