The Fate That Awaits

Has the glue stuck the clasp to Sartre's fingers?

No, he has been very careful.

But suddenly, he is unable to see.

Hands cover his eyes from behind. 

A familiar voice says: Surprise!

Beaver! says Sartre. 

It's not a beaver, says Terence. 

He calls me Beaver, says Simone.

You don't look like a beaver, says Terence.

My name is de Beauvoir, says Simone. It's a little joke we have between us.

But why have you come here? asks Sartre.

To see how you're doing, says Simone. I've been reading your blog. It's very funny.

It's not supposed to be funny, says Sartre. It's meant to be philosophical about bikes.

It's failing on that count, says Simone.

Did you see the photo of me? asks Terence. I was being a ghost.

I did, says Simone. You were wearing my mantilla.

I didn't rip it, says Terence.

I would have been cross if you had,  says Simone. It was supposed to replace my ripped hairnet.

I must apologise for that, dear, says Sartre.

Never mind, mon petit, says Simone. I prefer the mantilla. Where is it?

Somewhere around, says Sartre. First let me put down this handbag.

Oh yes, the famous handbag, says Simone. Is that it? It's so small!

It's the Fuzzball's, says Terence, taking the handbag from Sartre.

What's that stuck to your finger? asks Simone.

A HAT PIN! says Terence. It's coming off soon.

Let me help, says Simone.

No need, says Sartre. Sweezus has gone to get something to dissolve the glue.

Nail polish remover would do it, says Simone.

I suppose you have some? says Sartre.

Well no, says Simone. I didn't expect I would need it. 

She looks at the hat pin.

Whose hat pin is it? she wonders.

Has Sartre been flirting again?

Sartre knows what she is thinking.

The hat pin belongs to a very old lady, says Sartre.

A great grandma, says Terence. Of another lady.

Oh, a younger lady, says Simone Where is this younger lady?

Inside, says Terence. 

I'm going  inside myself, says Simone. I've bought two tickets. May I have my mantilla? 

Sartre feels in his pockets. 

Here it is.

Thank you, says Simone, arranging it over her hair.

Coming in with me? asks Simone. 

I can't leave Terence, says Sartre.

You've left him before, says Simone. I read your blog, remember?

I'll wait here, says Terence. Sweezus will be coming. 

Very well, says Sartre. Don't lose the handbag.

I won't, says Terence. 

Sartre goes off with Simone.

To join the queue for the fate that awaits him.

Inside.