Drama

There is Lafrois again with his thin wrists and wrinkled cotton shirts, always two buttons undone from the neck. The pale delta of flesh gleaming between taut tendons, stretching to rupture with each of his affected laughs.

What sweet proof of the fate’s existence, that men like Lafrois were born to these gentle posts, and allowed to find comfort—hell, even fulfillment—as high school drama teachers. Could this man have been anything but the frivolous, over impassioned, tightly wound teacher of the arts?

Had he been born to a harsher climate he would have no doubt fallen under, been crushed to gaily colored reams beneath the hooves of more stately, functional men. But, fortunate soul, he was born to Luc and Isabelle Lafrois, amongst the floral wreaths and glistening vials of perfume, amongst the deliciously forbidden charms of his mother’s secret female magic. And he clung to her bosom with a fervor unnatural for young men. A fervor that earned him little more than the passive disgust of his father, and the disposition that would lead him to life as a drama teacher in Sudbury, Connecticut.

Watch as Lafrois lifts the glass slipper to his eye, sweeps his large pale hands before the audience and collapses to a pile of rags beneath the proscenium. Hear the throat clearing itself in the back of the theatre, hear the ticking of one hundred veiled watches.