Trifle

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I demand more from you.

You can’t simply expect me to leave the house I’m in and march to your drum. You’re not the King. Are you? Are you suggesting something you are not? Whimsical. Fanciful. A tilt, but that’s all.

You’ve taken a piece of me, but there is much more that can sway this ship. Have I ever told you about my first love? Ah, Kincaid! He was a fanciful, too. He had red hair, and green trousers, with a yellow doublet—cast over his ornate cane. Did he need the cane? Of course not.

He brought me to the precipice of delight and left me out to dry. Stole me from my father. Again and again, came to my door with dowry to boot. A fine russian Lapsan, embarking on his boat in the harbor.

Out to see we spent the day, and out the waves did part.
The bow went west,
I dipped my chest,
And danced along the bark.

The music, the wind, the dancing. Oh, the way Kincaid could send me around the room. Yes, he was wicked. He was a naughty boy, and it came to that. He tried to take me. On the ship. Why, I couldn’t believe it. I had no idea what had come over him to think he could treat me that way. Like an animal. Like a little beast with a mask. I cried, I begged him to discontinue these advances. He would not be content. I could not satisfy. He brought his cane down on me. I thought it was joke. I thought it was humor. But he was mad. Quite, quite mad.

Daddy had burst into the room on a hunt for drink, took one look at me: tied to the barnacle bed, my hair in tassel’s, my arms a red hue. He took one look at me and ate Kincaid. I watched my father swallow that boy whole. Alas, alas, he was dead.

And you, my friend, remind me of him. I demand more from you.

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