Short Story again...

So, I WAS going to write something personal...but then I do as I always do when I realise Ive gone too deep, and end up avoiding self probing in favour of something light...Here Goes

“In May…I remember…roses…”

“Must be nice, to remember” I mused aloud, as I stood in the kitchen, snatches of Mrs Harcourt’s garbled musings floating by on the air, her haunting voice still sonorous after decades off the stage. It has been my weekly duty to maintain the home of our neighbourhood’s ‘sweet old lady next door’, often foregoing the awkward social dance of adolescence so wholly embraced by everyone else my age. I had stepped in for a glass of lemonade, and a brief respite from the summer sun’s fierce onslaught as I toiled at the flower beds beneath the Porch and front windows.

“Oh, and dancing! Such delightful dancing that it was as if we moved on clouds and not the flagged stone floors of the great hall…”I poked my head in the sunroom, where she sat on her spindly chintz armchair, a delicate demitasse poised at her lips for a dainty sip. She looked absently at the table before her, on which she had arrayed her complete discography, then to the chair identical and opposite her own.

“Then when they had announced that there was a starlet amongst the crowd, such a twitter rose around me, whisperings and murmurings as everyone tried to figure out who the celebrity was. I was tickled pink,” here, she hid a giggle behind a tiny palm. “Though outwardly to my escort I feigned displeasure at the loss of my privacy…” I observe her beatific smile in profile, blushing as my presence went unnoticed.

“Mrs Harcourt? Are you okay in here?” just my first time, and I hated this; intruding on her reverie. Though her daughter insists it was not healthy. In my opinion, if it makes her happy, doesn’t she deserve to do it?

“Oh Anthony, I didn’t hear you come in, I’m just here regaling Ms Bradbury about the early days of my career.” She gestures to the empty armchair opposite her expectantly, turning her head in that slow graceful manner. Thus gently imperioused, I turned, and in my most polite voice uttered:

“A pleasure, Ms Bradbury, how are you this fine afternoon?” I looked in earnest at the armchair, as if, for all intents I were really seeing her interviewer.

“I am just splendid Anthony, My dear friend Agatha speaks quite fondly of you. How are the camellia’s coming?” so utterly shocked at the response I dazedly look back at Mrs Harcourt, on whose face is the most puckish grin. After a growing silence, in which I contemplate my sanity, she asks, still with a glint of mischief in her eye

“Well? How are the new darlings of my garden Anthony?”

“They thrive well.” I answer, my voice suspiciously thin. “The grafting was successful, and they should be budding any time now.”

“Oh, I am glad to hear it, I do so look forward to my visit next month.”

“Next month ma’am?” I quickly turn my gaze to the armchair, then shift back to Mrs Harcourt in three quick volleys, my confusion growing.

“Yes, it’s why I called, I had just come back to the states and thought to chat up Aggie here, one thing led to another and now we’re still here talking, lost to the past. Forgive us old ladies our long reminiscences.”

“That’s not the reason for our dear Anthony’s bewilderment I’m afraid.” Said my host, impish with delight. “He seems to have thought, and I assume with influence from Sarah, my eldest, that I was engaging myself-or worse, some invisible entity- in avid conversation!” Ms Bradbury makes rushed breaths that I slowly come to realise is laughter. “Oh, but you should have seen the look on his face as he said good day to the armchair!” she again daintily giggled behind her delicate hand. I shook my head and politely withdrew from the room, an embarrassed chuckle escaping as I opened the doors back out onto the lawn.