Luckless Socialite Madame Curine & Lucky Artist Magdalene

Madame Curine stopped at the river bank of Paris circa 1923, stepped out of her ostrich drawn chariot with her spotted orange leopard in tow. The latest in fashion accessories, an exotic pet was all the rage, she just had to take it one step further, add an ostrich in the mix. She hands him off to her butler with a signature flourish, she's a drama mama that one. 

Her feathered hat bobbing in step with her confident stride, she stopped where an artist is painting, a pop up shop of that time, lining the banks until the constables arrive to chase them off. 

She sighed as she approached, her heavy bosom in a tight dress heaving in dismay.

How lucky are you to do what you want!

Waving her theatric hand at the easel, almost as if she was talking to the painting and not the artist. 

The artist dressed in rags, looks up at her, face plastered with a pleasant silent smile reserved for rich folks. 

The Madame walked the length of wares laid out, snorting at some, pausing momentarily at others that catch her eye, touching a couple hesitantly with tips of black gloved fingers. 

She lifted her head gallantly, again with that exaggerated sigh, strolled back to a disappointed face under a ratty newsboy's cap, a craned neck now retracted back into a frayed collar, ending in a suspended white shirt washed to grey.

Another looker not a buyer, she thought, deflating into herself.

Unlike the Madame, her sighs are often swallowed into her belly where food should be, it surprised even her at times how she didn't die of despair yet. 

I wish I can be like you, so free, so uninhibited, pursuing your dream! She exclaimed again, with triumphant hands reaching for the sky, breathing the beautiful world into her. 

"Madam", looking up from the shadow of her cap, "did you ever think you're the lucky one, I need art and you do not." She said this in a whisper.

It was only then that Madame Curine knew she was a girl, her wave now became larger, her arms are flesh turbine, grinding her down in her mind, no response is also a response. 

In a fluttery of perky lace bodice, jolly feathers and juggling bows, she extending her hand out to retrieve the leash, tugging at precious Snoot as he growled at Magdalene, ready to pounce. 

Magdalene rattled, almost falling off her chair, her painting fell instead, landing in muddied rain water. 

Rushing to salvage it, watching the paint bleed into the puddle, it was ruined and she had no more canvases left, she slumped onto the ground, no more fight left in her. 

When she looked up, the street was quiet, dusk has settled and it was another day gone, another day on a growling stomach not unlike Snoot. 

Disclaimer - all fiction, based on true stories, with a ridiculous amount of artistic liberties.  



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