Gypsy Triangle And The Beach Princess

Holding his swing shift coffee mug, bachelor aristocrat Theodore Archer, CEO of Monarchy Mattress, enjoyed a privileged skyscraper view from his playboy penthouse, observing all the differences that the concrete magic conjured, instigating the commercial island’s pridefully boasted spirit.

“I love this place,” he sipped the star bucks pick me up.

“You’ve planted so many emotional seeds,” Dillard Marcy commentated running the office wearing a newly department store purchased dressed attire, “people think you married the cosmopolitan jungle.”

“You know those fashionable business pumps, make you seem grown up,” Theodore retaliated.

“I cannot work late tonight, Boss,” the enterprising entrepreneur continued, not hearing the orthotic less comment.

“And why not?”

“Date, hunky guy I met at lunch.” Dillard smiled; he liked my successful display.

“Still grabbing those quick academic muffins down at the University? I see,” Theodore inquired.

“Well, he seems to have a future, when we met, he actually was carrying textbooks.”

Corporate refreshment container prop recently discovered empty, Theodore concluded his social security issue, deciding a development plan to accomplish what the youth handle innocently, not thinking about their image, acting on instincts. But since his mature mind demanded strategy process, a well thought out agenda needed creation.

Finding a walking map, stuffed inside the desk, laying out all the paths around the metropolis, Theodore spent a few minutes studying provided data. “I want to check on some old investments.”

Expensive, affluent watches reported two o’clock, one hundred twenty, second quarter minutes, and Theodore found himself taking in the park, the island’s crown jewel. Featured at its center, a ballfield stadium filled with bleacher seating, encouraging wheeling dealing style office workers reminding them adjust their ties before focusing attention on the pitcher’s mound.

“Now throwing strikes,” an announcement came over the loudspeaker, enticing a small applauding crowd, “Collete Cleats.”

Using the same quality boardroom metered meeting quota system, Theodore watched Collete work the batter, manipulating them around until letting one slip.

“Oops,” the perfectionist heard acknowledged, watching the rawhide twined circular object head over the fence.

“Collete time for the showers,” ordered the coach, entering the scene.

Letting the figure of speech go, Collete, who, when she puts her foot down impacts others with her steel spiked footwear, the athletic competitor grabbed an orange slice, peeling a smile.

“If it isn’t Sir Theodore Archer, athletic supporter,” she sported a teasing grin.

“Collete,” he respectively replied, “it’s good to see you out there, just had a tough one I see.”

“Yeah, made someone look good,” Collete politely explained.

“That is, you Collete, always allowing someone to score on you,” Theodore honestly stated.

“Only way to be a winner Sir Theodore is know how to lose,” Collete found the proper bat, watching Theodore depart the backstop dugout, “now approaching the plate Collete Cleats,”

Walking away, Theodore heard the clink to the aluminum instrument and recreational cheering erupted throughout the small environment.

“Home run, Collete Cleats.”

Pondering the statement ‘to be a winner, you have to know how to lose’, Theodore returned to the bustling hustle, spotting a theatrical fountain spouting water, sparking curiosity tempting, Thomas Archer climb the small stairs.

“Did you ever wonder why our fountain never dances?” A voice questioned.

“No,” Theodore saw the petite girl wearing prestigious shoes, “why?”

“We are the ones who do that,” answered the local company’s ballet principal performer.

“Saraton Slippers,” Theodore outstretched his hand.

“You are not here to give me money, Theodore? Are you?” She wanted confirmation.

“No, just a pleasant greeting,” Theodore defended himself.

“So, sleep well majestic majesty, Theodore Archer, arts patron supporter,” Saraton continued, “what can I do for you?”

“Wanted to stop by and say hello,” Theodore offered an excuse, “how is the new show going?”

“Same script we been using for the last three centuries, but this year there is a plot twist,”

“Really?”

“A rat poisons the royal,”

“And I assume the nutcracker is still working earning peanut size wages,”

“I know you wanted to plant a financial stake in our heart but, if you did, I could no longer work here, company rules,”

“Those companies,” Theodore laughed while Saraton joined in,

“Look Theodore, it is always how you interpret what you see,” Saraton hinted advice, “you have to look at the scene in many different ways.”

“Not just the bottom line,” Theodore clarified.

“That is where we get you, since our auditorium has nice seats comforting humanities cushions.”

“Your extravaganzas have always been enjoyable,”

Smirking Saraton added, “hope you heed our message.”

Darkness finally invaded the island and Theodore Archer strolled passed the window-shopping displays, transacting the financial district depositing interest, landing safely inside an alley where Helen Heels peacefully sat on a chair reading a book.

“Do you have enough illumination?” Concerned, Theodore wondered.

“My spotlight is fine, Theodore Archer,” Helen declared not even looking up, “it shines bright while guiding my fantasy trip, grateful I am, my dear curtain calling supporter.”

“Why aren’t you loitering on the stage door’s other side?”

“Why aren’t you working late?” Helen quickly pulled her trigger.

“I came by to see you” Theodore expressed.

“Well, I am reading my boyfriend’s scribbled notes trying to figure out where to put the musical numbers,” she told him, “insert the distraction at the exact right moment, mandatory.”

“Boyfriend?”

“We are collaborating, putting together a really big show,” Helen stood her ground.

“That is very nice,” Theodore’s friendly blessings featuring a genuine quality, “I hope it is a great hit.”

“Theodore, remember always end every production with something that will send the audience home happy,” Helen monitored her Prince disappear.

Breaking waves soothed the landscape and Theodore Archer arrived, confronting the sandy dead end when his work all day fatigue overpowered the popular personality. Physically challenged with exhaustion, he collapsed onto the beach, listening to the sound of the pounding surf until he drifted off to sleep.

Hours later the sun glowed heating the situation making Theodore sweat due to the three-piece ensemble staying too long. Behind him a barefoot life guarder addressed the predicament, “excuse me are you all, right?”

Slowly opening his eyes, a beautiful noble leader, minus her crown, “Princess Wannabe?” Theodore’s conscious came back.

“Do you need mouth to mouth?” Princess Wannabe paused, “Prince Theodore.”

“No, I will be fine.” Psychology mechanisms were activated automatically.

“Did any of the gypsy shoes fit?” Princess Wannabe interrogated.

“No,” Theodore used the same one word.

‘Well,” Princess Wannabe continued digging, “did the gypsies shoes fit?”

“Our loyal high-profile commoners, gave me advice,”

“But did any of the gypsies shoes fit?” Princess Wannabe stared down.

“No, Princess, only your shoes fit,”

“But I am not wearing any,” Princess Wannabe clearly informed.

“That is right, Princess, I have worked way too hard, I have enough money, I need to dig my feet into the sand and enjoy life.”

“Prince Theodore,”

“Yes,”

“Afternoon nutrition break is exactly when the tower clock bongs twelve times and I have my daily special,” Princess Wannabe verbal promotion advertised.

“Which is?”

“Peapacked pie and Green Pea Soup,”

“That sounds great.” Prince Theodore halted, “one last thing, Princess Wannabe, can I have your mouth to mouth offering now?”

Sparking a long loving embrace where the kissing lasted until the mid-day hour struck noon, the kids committed to each other flooding the island with love.