The women of my day are beautiful; more beautiful than men should have any right to expect. Men are ungrateful, and selfish. They don’t care about their sweethearts’ feelings. My lover was crazy about me. His name was Nick. “Carraway, Nick Carraway,” he’d introduce himself at those New York high society parties. In his arms, the nights were short. Four or five hours we’d spend together, never more. A few stolen moments after one of those lavish, magical, Gatsby-style parties F. Scott Fitzgerald would one day write about. The nights were woven of long caresses and passionate kisses. Nick loved me so much. He would tell me, “You’re the brightest diamond in New York, but I don’t feel at home here.”
Before he came to New York, Nick had been a farmer. He owned a huge ranch in Louisiana, and he’d amassed a fortune. He could afford to buy a whole Vanderbilt building. Nick was always giving me the finest jewellery from Christie’s, the biggest stones or the latest shoes from Bergdorf Goodman. He was generous, and attentive, a real gentleman. He kept a close eye on me, and got real mad anytime another man looked at me. But he never raised a hand or even his voice to me. He loved me so much.
Then one morning I woke up and found that Nick wasn’t there. He’d just gone. I never saw him again. I’m sure he had his reasons. Wanted to leave the madness of New York behind, I guess, and get far away from the skyscrapers and the bustle in the streets, far from the metropolis and the giant edifices springing up all over Manhattan. He loved me so much! “Where did he go?” I ask my mirror. Life can be sweet, and it can be harsh. Happiness is fleeting, and love is cruel. I decided to cut my hair. Nick was everything to me. He was kind, and had such poise. He was faithful, and courteous; a beautiful southern dandy.
Nick hated New York, though I’ll never know why. The buildings left him dazed – he, the farmer from Louisiana. The honking taxi cabs drove him crazy. I guess Nick wasn’t as much of a high-society city mouse as he made out. He felt violated by New York. It was too much for him to stay, even for the girl who’d stolen his heart. So I’ve had my hair cut, and changed my look. My sweetheart has left me forever. No letter, no parting words. It doesn’t matter. I feel reborn and independent with my short hair. I’m happy. I’m fulfilled. “But where did he go?” I asked the mirror again. I’m beautiful, much more beautiful than he realized. “Mirrors would do well to reflect a little longer before sending back images,” I think. They’re like men who make sudden, extreme decisions, without ever worrying about the damage and the hurt they might cause.
Alan Alfredo Geday