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Excerpt from my story, “Brickwalk Mollies” —
Although this is my own journal, which no eyes but mine shall read, I hesitate and feel the heat in my face to so much as commit her name to its pages.
Kitty. Kitty O’Shea.
It is a wrongness, I know. An unhealthy interest. A base fascination.
I am not some shy chap in tweed cap and knickerbockers, sending wistful glances at the object of his romantic fancy.
And she is no suitable such object.
Yet, whenever evening draws nigh, as it does now, my pulse quickens. My ears keen for the brash boldness of her laugh, the lilt of her voice not syrup-sweet like the girl’s but as potent as Irish whisky. My eyes sharpen for the first glimpse of her sleek foxbrush-red hair, the powdered-cream of her cheek, the carmine pout of her lips. I wonder what scent she might wear – lilac? rose? – dabbed at wrist and neck. I wonder what curves are concealed beneath her straight slip-fitted dress.
This is my own journal; where else may a man be honest with his thoughts?
The worst of it is, I could have her.
No. The worst of it is, anyone could.