Chapter 30 twenty nine queenie

this is not me.Queenie.Bly wasn't there at all.This woman is a stunner and he demands so much from her.He liked the soft, fine golden hair on her legs.Her tits were the pinkest he had ever seen.Her throat He must kiss her throat.This woman is every bit as sexy as a starlet just breaking out on screen.Their black and white legs intertwine and untie on the bed.Her ghostly pale hands caressed every inch of his tan skin.She is so coveted.He carved her with his warm breath.His tongue licked between her legs like a cat licking cream.this is not me.The woman watched his ass rise and fall with each finger sucked on his hand.She scratched his back with her nails and yelled until he bent down and filled her mouth with eager lips.this is not me.The woman gasped and pushed and bit.And when he rolled on top of her, she sank into the pillow and groaned.Queenie.Mrs. Bligh would never do such a thing.That Mrs. Bligh usually figured out what to cook for dinner while she was making love to her husband.But this woman, if not for the blackout, might have lit up all of London with her enthusiasm.

I feel like he leaves me at night.I was still lying naked in the messy sheets, but the other side of the bed that was warmed by him was gradually getting cold.I knew Michael and the other two were down to catch the early morning train and they had asked me which way was the best way to get to the station.After a while, they all jumped downstairs and slammed the door out, returning to the army to continue their service.But before they left, someone knocked lightly on my door: once, twice.The door even opened a thin crack before closing it carefully.Just saying a simple good-bye seems too petty in my opinion.Michael.Roberts was supposed to be sent off with blaring bugles and dancing, but Arthur woke me up in such haste that the thought crossed my mind that perhaps I was in the wrong seat for my well-groomed husband in pajamas. and perhaps a black face with curly hair or five black toes.

What's the matter, Arthur?There are times when his eyebrows don't work at all.Like a dog trying to get its owner to rescue a child who has fallen into a well, I had to guess what the faltering words, the pointed fingers, and the slightly flicked heads meant.Oh, really.I finally got angry and contradicted.Arthur, your voice is fine, can't you speak clearly?His eager expression cast a blank curtain, and I immediately regretted what I had said.I'm really sorry. He found a flat wallet that must have been Michael.Misplaced or forgotten by Roberts in his haste to leave.There are a few photos of the tattered interior.One is an old black man standing in front of the house very formally.The lord of the estate looked out over the world like a chimpanzee in clothes.In front of him sat a white-haired black woman with a face that stinks like a Monday morning.Another was a dark little girl with curly hair tied up with ribbon the size of a bandage.The photos are as mottled and faded with sentimentality as any Air Force sergeant's photo.The wallet must have fallen out of his jacket pocket while he was rummaging through the weapons of wartime seduction, those cans of ham and oranges.The tattered appearance of the wallet shows that it has been in many places, stuffed in pockets, squeezed into backpacks, and hidden in hats.I hold the wallet, warming my fingers from how cherished it is.It might be his lucky charm.I've heard that most pilots have lucky charms, and it's not safe to fly without a lucky charm.This is Michael.Roberts' fate should not be in my hands.I dressed quickly, trying to catch him at the station and hand it over to him before it was too late.And, anyway, it was easier to find a person of color in RAF uniform at the station than to look apologetically in Arthur's face all morning and find that his lecherous daughter-in-law could no longer look him in the eye.

Not far from the station, I heard my name called with the same urgency as Bernard's emergency call for towels when he got up from the bathtub.I looked around and I could have sworn someone was taking a picture of me: the focal point of the strobe sparks burning right into my eyes.But then, my legs lift off the ground.I see the pavement lowering below me, feel the air whizzing by, the waterless sea roaring into my eyes.Then everything was quiet, except for the high-pitched, high-pitched tones in my head.I'm not the only one flying.There is a woman over there who should be said to be a pile of rags, with woolen sweaters and skirts twisting and flapping.A man, a little boy, bowed and jumped off a diving board.A beautiful silent ballet.Seeing this scene, my eyeballs almost popped out.Something smacked my back hard, sweeping the wind away.Then I'm back on the ground again.Slip down the slide near the school.Waverly screamed like a schoolgirl in his late father's boots.I told him: shut up.You will wake up the dead!Landing so viciously, the ground is so hard in winter.It's getting dark, look at the fog.So strong!go home.I don't want to ride down the slide anymore.Waverly, I don't have any muffins right now.You will find your way home.Let's go, let's go.I'm going to stay here and take a nap.

Waverly's screeching had stopped when I awoke.He must have gone home.No, Queenie, he wasn't there at all.And that wasn't fog either, it was brick glass wood soot billowing in a thick layer of cauliflower smoke.One of my shoes was missing, my coat was torn, my skirt was rolled up to my waist, and my panties were exposed for everyone who wanted to see.I have brittle glass silverware in my hair and the corners of my mouth smell like blood. Maybe I'm dead.I leaned against the wall, paralyzed where I fell, unable to move, quietly watching an angel singing in my ear.A doll slowly falls from the sky onto a tree, caught by black tips on the leafless branches.The front of a house has been chipped off, as if opening from a hinge.Dollhouse-like rooms with sweeping views.The tiny stairwell winds down into the cramped hall.In the bedroom the bed slid, the sheets hung, and the white flag fluttered.The closet was opened, and the clothes fell out of it.Empty armchairs lay warmly by the fire.The kitchen kettle was heating, and there were two pairs of Wellington boots by the fire.And in the bathroom, standing next to Yuhong, the shower curtain flying up too fast, before she's ready to perform, is a naked woman.Silent screams emanated from a woman as she gazed at a doll in a pink cap hanging limply from a tree.The lady dropped to her knees and began to pray, while a man in uniform turned and vomited.

But of course the dead don't feel pain, that's the point.I was among the crowd, smoldering like smoked salmon, one of those bombed.Is it a missile?I didn't hear Xiao Sa's buzzing sound.There was no time to plan where it would land.But I keep walking from house to house, right?A woman shouted from the window: "Herman, come in quickly."And I thought to myself: How ordinary.The boy running past me grimaced as he passed.A tabby cat stretches on the stairs.Such an ordinary and unforgettable scene, but there must be someone walking, staring at the watch to see if they can't get on the train, hooking their arms, carrying a bag, right?There was an old man reading a newspaper, and there was a pub with a rickety sign in the corner.Where did it all go?The spiky hills that are now all wreckage, shattered, twisted, cracked, and smoke covers a large part of the sky, leaving only this desolate scene.

Honey, can you stand up?Can you hear me?Miss, can you stand up?Are you okay?can you moveA man's face was very close together, his breath smelled like a dog's.I could just hear his voice, but I knew what he was saying.I have said this to myself many times.I pointed so that I was the only one seeing the naked woman in the bathroom.He looks around.You don't have to worry, we will take care of that young lady.Let's see if you can move first.Tell me, what's your name.can you tell me your name I said: Queenie.At least I think I said it. Honey, can you hear me?What's your name?

Queenie. By the way, Queenie.Let's find a way to get you up.You don't look too serious.There are worse people who come out of the bar on a Saturday night!stand up. Three men were building a ladder, trying to find a pivot among the dangerous piles of rubble.And the naked woman, dark pubic hair forming a perfect triangle, looked out of the shattered room, as if a little confused as to why she was so cold. Can you walk to the ambulance?You can. I should be able to slide through it easily, but the cut is so painful that I need lube.From time to time glass spilled from me like leaves from a Christmas tree.One of the men climbed up the ladder, stepping on each rail carefully as if they were planted with land mines.

Come on, Queenie, can you walk?You don't have to worry about things over there, there are people in charge of rescue.You just have to keep an eye on the road. That man was near her now, in the once-secret bathroom above.The man told her to go over and step on the ladder, but she stood like a rock, unwilling to admit any mistakes.He tested the broken floor, bouncing lightly on it, stepping down the ladder on the rail.The man came up to her, wrapped her in his coat, urged her to put her hands in her sleeves, and she obeyed like a sleepwalker. I took four steps.The man supported me all the way.I know it's four steps because each step is as hard as a newborn's walk.First my ankle was wobbly, and my shoeless foot was cut.I almost fell on the third step.By the fourth step, my cut bare foot stepped on something soft.Looking down, I saw myself stepping onto a palm-up hand, the fingers wrapping around my foot in a reflex motion due to my weight.I felt the warmth of that hand go up through the soles of my feet.sorry.I said, expecting to hear a cry of pain.

Just keep watching the ambulance, that's where we're going.Queenie, can you hear me?Can you hear me?Come on, Queenie, we're almost there.We'll get you back to safety soon. The hand wore a gold ring and was wrapped in a blue wool sleeve, but its owner was nowhere to be seen.My foot was supported by a severed hand.That hand ended its life in a bloody fight. Many people in the hospital told me I was lucky.The nurses, the police, even the little old woman with the oversized white bandage over one eye said it was okay and that it wasn't too bad.A few broken ribs, a sprained wrist, and a cheek swollen the color and size of an overripe plum.Encountering bombs and air raids, yes, I am really lucky like this.

I'm fine, I'm fine.I tell Arthur all the time.He was restless around me like a mother.He took the tea, sat down close to me, and watched me lift the cup to my mouth with trembling hands.I had to put down my teacup so the tea wouldn't spill.He wiped my face gently with a cloth, and put the teacup in my hand.This time, his hand wrapped mine like never before, and it was as firm as a rock, holding the warm and sweet food, and delivered it safely to my mouth. A bit of a turn of events, Arthur?I am not lucky, but sad.Years of war, people who have been bombed badly can still joke and smile at me with steady eyes after everything has been wiped out, and I am shaking so hard here, I have to rely on a shell-shocked veteran to help me deliver tea lips. You believe me, Arthur, almost died when the war was almost won.It's really funny, no matter how you look at it, it's funny.Don't you think it's funny?Um, Arthur, do you find this funny? He also had to put me to bed and help me up the stairs I was sick. I heard someone calling my name.Someone called me just before the explosion.Who do you think that would be?Do you think it's possible that Aunt Dorothy, or my little brother Jim, came from out of nowhere to warn me?Although I wanted to ask him if he thought it was Michael who had seen me in the street, I didn't.Arthur tucked the sheet under the mattress and patted the pillow, on which there was still Michael.Roberts whispered indecently.I couldn't button my pajamas, and my fingers were shaking awkwardly.I said: Come on, Queenie, cheer up.Arthur, who helped me sit on the edge of the bed, buttoned it up carefully for me.I said to him: Thank you, Arthur.He helped me to lie on the bed and wrapped me tightly with a quilt, like protecting a worried baby.Then he lowered his head and slowly approached me.I know he wants to kiss me, but he wants to kiss my mouth.I turned my head away.He hesitated, panicking like a lover who overstepped the rules.He spoke softly and slowly. If anything happens to you, I can't live on.He said, being careful not to speak one word at a time. Arthur, you spoke.His voice was as deep as Bernard's and as orthodox as a BBC accent.I was so frightened that it was as if the closet had opened its mouth and told me that there would be no more clothes in it.You speak, you can speak.I waited for him to say more.talk to me.Everything he saw can now be told to me.Explain his point of view to me.His feelings, his thoughts.Maybe even read a poem to me.But he didn't, he just leaned forward again, this time kissing my forehead.And I couldn't help it, sobbing.Bring me the rotten clock that tells the time.The knitting hooks clicked and Bernard pulled the chair closer to the radio and hissed me again to be quiet.I am fed up with war.Come on, let's all go back to the boring time. do not leave Me.I told Arthur.I lifted the comforter and put him in bed with me.But he tucks the quilt back and pulls a chair over to me.Sitting in silence.