PEDESTAL

“Wow!  Look at ‘er, up there!”

“She’s so beautiful!”
“I love her dress.”
“She’s perfect.”

Yes, smile and wave at them, try hard not to look like I’m about to fall off.  It’s so hard to keep my balance on this wretched thing and if I do ... well, it wobbled the other day; I slipped and only just managed to stay on my feet.  I must appear poised and regal and perfect to the crowd that’s always there.

The pedestal is shaking, people are gasping and pointing, but I can’t see what they’re looking at, it’s directly under me, I’m slipping this way and that.  Oh my God!  My heart is in my throat, finally I’m falling.  Oh it feels so free to fall, I love this part ...  Someone catches me and it’s almost disappointing.  However, here he is handsome, smiling and full of self confidence.

“You looked kind of sad all the way up there,” he said, “I wanted to see you close up.”
We walk together arm in arm, through the dispersing crowd.

The six months of bliss begin, when I can be truly myself.  I laugh at rude jokes, sometimes I even tell them.  I drink alcohol and smoke a cigarette or two.  My rescuer and I make love at night in satin sheets, the taste of champagne in our mouths.  I have never been happier.  Then one day a frown appears on his face; “You’re so perfect, I don’t deserve you.”

“Of course you do.”
We walk through the town that evening and my rescuer becomes all the more gloomy as I strut along the pavement, smiling at everyone, small children, women, other men.  They all smile back.
“Everyone looks at you!” he suddenly exclaimed, “and then they see me and think what the hell is she doing with that idiot!  I can’t bear it.  Come on!”  He is guiding me towards the park.
A horrible feeling of dread descends on me.  I stop smiling; “Please!” I beg him, “I can’t help being this way, but please don’t ...!”
The pedestal is rearing up before us in the dying light.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I love you, but you’re safer up there where no-one can touch you!”

 

Smile and wave at them – when I’ve jumped one of them has always caught me.  Try hard not to look like I’m about to fall off - a fall from the pedestal always ends with my return to it.  I must appear poised and regal and perfect to the crowd that’s always there.