Joe always hated his name. That is, until he found out that his beloved Marilyn had been married to Joe DiMaggio–imagine that, married to a "Joe;" she must have loved him, he thought. " Joe, Joe, Joe" she would have said, and through time, those words drifted over to him, resonated in his mind and became her words to him.
It was the white dress that did it. When he saw the movie, "The Seven Year Itch," and saw her standing over the transom, her hands holding down the white, accordion-pleated dress, as the skirt blew around her, her red lips parted in a huge smile, obviously enjoying the sensation. She was pure sex and he felt pure lust. He fell in love.
From then on she became an obsession. Her image engraved in his brain. Every photograph, every bit of trivia that he could afford, he carefully collected and displayed. Many evenings at home, he would rearrange his Marilyn memorabilia over and over again--photographs, books, dolls, so many things. His favorite was a Marilyn wall clock-- her legs were the hands of the clock, and some of the positions were quite erotic–his favorite ebay acquisition.
Sometimes, feeling especially lonely and vulnerable, he would stare at his favorite photograph of her–looking sad and lonely too. She understands, she knows how I feel, he thought.
There were times when a very strong feeling would come over him; it was hard to describe, it was as if he became someone else.
He opened his closet door. . . . . . . . .
The door of Joe’s row apartment opened, and a very attractive blond walked out. It was a warm summer evening and she wore a clingy, jersey dress that accentuated her curvy figure. Her makeup was carefully applied, the red lips accentuated into a pout. Was that a mole on her lower cheek? She walked down the street with small, sometimes unsteady steps, and disappeared into the night.
(This is my entry for the February 2nd, trifecta writing challenge. http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/ )