"Alright. As I was saying," Jamie started, her lips parting from the glass that swirled red. Two other women leaned in a little further, their hair twisted up high and pearls laying on their bony sternums. Jamie Johnson continued her story, discussing what was similar to politics in the latest fashion news. Or more importantly, the most recent fashion failures.
"I swear, her head looked like it was on a thirty foot building with that scarf. I mean, what even was it? Dolce? It's quite common knowledge to never pair Dolce with anything Scandinavian, it's a true crime." Her perfectly brushed hair teased up high and secured with an elongated hairpin twinkled in the light. The fancy broach for her hair didn't even amount to the sparkle that came from her finger. Most of the women sat in awe, not of her gossip but by the rainbow droplets that seem to be produced by the diamond. Selma Adams kept her hands folded neatly in her lap, she didn't say a word but uttered the occasional elongated vowel.
The two couches in the drawing room of the Johnson home were tufted and smooth. A curve drawing along the back of the couch in a cylindrical twist. While Selma and Gwyneth sat neatly, legs never crossed but slanted, Jaime Johnson was in peril. A "womanly peril", she'd describe it. She was quite jittery with her words, drunk on expensive wine that she opened impatiently. Her motions were drawn out, contrasting her messy words, often stuck on finding the perfect one for her ramble. Though her lounging gown and robe showed sign that she was having guests at an inappropriate time, her hair seemed to have been perfect as well as her makeup. So much so that it didn't matter what she was wearing, she would've been pictured as a damsel in distress rather than a woman exceedingly, progressively drunk.
Gwyneth Lillian Borden was a sweet young girl, around the age where it wasn't a crime to ask for her age or her phone number. As she graduated university with a degree in art history, she became enthralled with a handsome politician. His eye went towards the governor position and Gwyneth showed her support. The campaign itself showed a glimpse into the life she might have as a woman in a large house with its own garden that needed workers to tend to. Though she was too timid to hope for a residency at the White House. While she stood beside her lover, she slowly became impatient and restless for her marriage to arrive.
By the time Jaime Johnson was monosyllabic, Gwyneth had a flushed uprising in her voice.
"I just don't understand why he would keep me strung along like this, and he knows that I'd follow him wherever he went, and yet, he keeps baiting me on a hook that he will never reel back up." She sobbed, her cotton gloves coming off as she took another sip of the dark juice hurriedly, another few words sprouting up in her mind again.
"I've never been fishing but I sometimes, and probably foolishly, can think myself a Jackie. Can't I? Can't I be a Jackie?" She said, her brows knitted up in worried and desperate lines. Selma shook her head slowly, a drawl coming out of her as well, "You are better than some Jackie, Ginnie. I assure you, he'll find the courage and the words to marry you. I'm sure he will." She said, her hand finding Gwyneth's. Selma was given a pout and sorry, Bambi-like eyes, to which she tsked.
The three women sat in the drawing room, a couple sprawled out, another swaying back and forth. A bitter blonde, a jittery brunette, and a drowsy redhead. The picture of it looked like a painting; Three perfect women in despair because that is what they are supposed to do.