Pearls, paintbrushes and roses

A string of pearls- Astrea

The final hum of the harp rang throughout the theatre. It was silent, even only for a moment. I savored those moments of pure silence, the ones not filled with music and the quiet whispering between the members of the audience. Silent, where I could be alone with my thoughts. That night, the crowd was as rich and as grand as ever, which was typical for one of my shows. I looked gorgeous. My chestnut hair tumbled across my shoulder, curled to perfection. My dress was tailored perfectly to my body, conservative enough as to not create a scandal, while also hugging my figure to keep the attention on me. My face was painted to make me look like a goddess among mortals. I was the picture of perfection, more beautiful than even Aphrodite. As I glanced across the crowd, it was full of rich men and their jealous wives. I wondered how many would show up at my doorstep that night. What a funny thought, that these married men would come to see me, and become infatuated with someone that they could never have.

Less than a split second after the silence, a booming wave of applause sounded. After all these years, applause still felt quite good to hear. As I headed back to my dressing room, I heard the one person I really didn't feel like seeing.

"Ah Astraea, what a lovely performance it was today! One of my favorites, might I add."

"As always, I am flattered." Nigel Barlowe, an unfortunate young man, who has been bothering me for months to give into his advances. I wanted no such thing. However, he was a faithful patron, and made sure to give generous donations. So, as unfortunate as it might be, I had to keep him around.

"Astrea, I've brought you some flowers! They're sunflowers, just as radiant and bright as you." Nigel said, attempting to sound charming, and not like an absolute prick.

"Why thank you, Nigel, but I already have quite an array here." Spread out on the table were multiple bouquets, all from those poor men who think they stand a chance. Oh, little do they know.

"Well, I hope you enjoy them, nevertheless. My address is attached to them as well if you ever needed a play to stay." What a fool, thinking I needed a place to stay. Part of me wanted him to see my mansion and see how stupid that remark was.

"Thank you, that is very kind," I responded without a hint of flattery. It was best to not lead him on too much.

"Well, I best be taking my leave."

"Yes, yes you should."

As he left, I saw the usual line of men waiting outside my dressing room, laden with gifts and frivolous items to show their 'affection'. When did affection become synonymous with desire? I mean, I couldn't blame them for being deceived, it was part of the act. As I shut the door and receded back to the comfort of my dressing room, I wondered, when would the type of person I want walk through that door?