Savour your victory, Sir. In this moment, you have certainly outwitted me. You had me at the disadvantage when you struck. Though you knew it, it did not slow your attack, nor did it diminish your victor’s ardour. Very well done, Sir.
For you could not have conquered so feasibly were we on an equal stance. I do not prop up my intellect, do not misunderstand my confidence. I merely guide you back to the memory of our encounter. So that you might acknowledge that I was hindered, not by lack of wit, but by manners expected. Were I to throw away said hindrance, I am certain that I could defeat you.
For you do not desire a challenge, and you prefer an already weakened opponent. And I enjoy a good whipping, if not in actual deed, but in the language of proper conversation.
I find you vulgar, Sir.
And not because I am female and require a gentler approach.
You lack finesse, the finer leanings for encounters. You misunderstand subtlety. Witty little lies and innuendo elude you. Instead, you are like a bull, careless and rash, animal in your dealings. You blunder, head first, stumbling in your own path, incapable of seeing the mess you create.
It offends me, Sir, even if it does not directly revolt me. For I am used to more consideration, and your inelegance is discourteous. For you did not think to learn otherwise in order to be on surer feet.
I see you are unhappy. Maybe a little furious. Shame. For I could teach you the finer art of etiquette. I could make you cleaner and more attractive, even as a forethought.
No, alas. I like you no better than men’s unmentionables. Therefore I care not for your education.
Stand back, Sir. You stuff of dreams forgotten.
Life made a spectacle of itself, and I was unprepared. Though I may laugh gayly, with obvious merriment, I am not amused. In truth, it can be said that I possess no sense of humour.
No, I mock you not, sir. I speak only facts that you do not wish to pry from me. For you seek only a brief acquaintance. A dalliance. An affaire. A momentary nothing.
But I must ask you to check yourself, sir. Check the reasons that you have chosen to approach me and place your noble, if slightly intoxicated self at my side. For I am not one of those other chicks you see out there. I am no debutante, though my dress is of the finest white silk and lace.
I am without whimsy, I am without mercy, and I will pity you once you are gone from my side. But go you must. I do not want you here.
Go you must, you tiresome creature.
It is true that I am one loosely termed impoverished. But I must have cotton. And if my meager funds should allow for it, some silk. Even that acquired from the cast offs of those on Grand Row.
For even in circumstances unfortunate and inconvenient, I must be comfortable and true to myself. My dignity is not tangible but it is mine. My skin must not blush for shame, but for the comfort of fine wool and cashmere. There is no reward for me in mediocrity. It is only in quality, authenticity, and appreciation of craftsmanship, do I gain my sense of purpose, meaning, and being.
So you see, ma’am. I am not impertinent. For I am lowly and poor after all, and cannot afford to be.
People are odd curiosities that remove me from the populace. I find it uncomfortable to unwind my body to the uniformity. I am of rigid mold, and plain folk just don’t cut it for me sometimes. I become confused, alarmed, worried. Then I retreat, in order that I may re-strategize.
I prefer simplicity. I prefer a sprinkle of humanity. I engage with these species, as if a calm wind held my back. I seek their minds and their eccentricities, in order that I might understand my proclivities. It is better this way, for then I am not of two minds. Doubt is the undoing of the unbending human being. It can never be deciphered, nor understood satisfactorily.
So I seek them still, these specks of the population that hold me in thrall, and ground me with my beliefs. So that the curiosities become even more mundane, and I can see through them, to the exemplary.