Of Plastic Pearls and Malevolant Sprites

The pearls are hung over the edge of my wardrobe, glowing dully in the fading light. I hammered a nail into the edge of the wood, using tools I found in the garage. I looped the pearls over the nail, let them hang artistically. I haven’t touched them since.

You told me a lady should never wear pearls before seven o’clock. I remember looking at my watch, laughing, shoving you to one side playfully. One hand on each of your shoulders. You looped one arm around my waist, squeezed gently. It was 6:50.

I’m looking at those same pearls now. I can’t tell if they have faded with time or it’s the dust that hides their shine. I reach up and take them down. The dust blackens my fingers.

I had white shoes to match the pearls. Stiletto heel, strappy. Black dress, pearls and white shoes. There was a cobbled square outside the club. I hesitated, wavering on one foot, before stumbling forwards. You came back for me, carried me across.

The club was crowed and hot. Our friends, already there, cooed over my shoes, my dress, my hair. I smiled, blushed, returned compliments. You went to the bar, bought drinks. You handed me a Baileys on ice with a smile. You didn’t even have to ask.

I threw the shoes out weeks ago. They were broken anyway, and much as I liked them, there was no point keeping them. My friends told me to keep them, told me to have them re-heeled. I told them it was too much bother.

She was stood at the bar when I first saw her. Chanel bag balanced on a stool, drink in one hand. Dainty legs crossed. Her dress was black and floaty, airy, ethereal. She had the look of a delicate sprite. A malevolent sprite.

You saw her before me. Sensed her perhaps, as soon as she walked in. You left my side and went straight over. Through suddenly emerald eyes I saw you pause as you kissed her cheek, lips suspended over her cheekbones. You shut your eyes, just briefly. I turned away.

Outside, the night was cold and clear. I leant against the wall of the club, ignoring the glances of the bouncers. I slipped the pearls off, ran them through my fingers like silk. The catch was tight, and I flicked it open and closed a few times to try and loosen it.

The catch is still stiff. I try it now, flicking it open and closed, just as I did then, stood outside a club one night in December. It still catches.

You didn’t see me, stood there with the pearls in my hands. Your gaze was on her as you led her down the steps. Her laugh was high, enchanting. She stooped to readjust one shoe, and your gaze followed her down, resting on the low neckline of her dress as she leant forward.

I stop, let the pearls drop. They pool like tears on the stone floor.

I stepped forward, just slightly. The noise of my heels was enough to make you turn, see my accusing face. She looked away, embarrassed. You opened your mouth to speak, and I turned away. I didn’t want to hear whatever you had to say.

Across the square I broke into a run. My heels clattered across the stone floor, echoing the rhythm of my sobs. Suddenly one heel snapped, and I fell, ankles twisting, hands grating, knees skidding, on the cobbles. I pulled the heels off, walked barefoot home, head bowed.

The paint is peeling on the middle pearl. I count in from each side with my fingers. Let them rest on this, the flawed, middle pearl. I peel a flake of silver away with my nails, let it drop. It floats slowly down.

You sent me a text later that night, but I didn’t read it. I deleted it, unopened. I didn’t want to hear your flawed excuses, explanations. I always knew you still loved her, and that when the time came, you wouldn’t be able to resist her.

I throw the pearls into the bin violently. After all, they were only plastic.