The coast is clear. 
Oh, how I hate using these cliches. But the monologue of my mind will never become a soliloquy, I suppose; there is no revision process for what the mind does not share with the page. Besides, at least my thoughts are uncensored. At least they go unchecked, unbridled; at least they enjoy the freedom that the rest of my body only wishes it could grasp.
So, I repeat to myself, as I exit the London train station, the coast is clear. No one knows where I am, or where I intend to go.
I have escaped.

An autumnal gust of wind rushes past peremptorily, as the blood colored leaves cling precariously to their unsympathetic branches. Beating against the trunk of the tree, they cry, they plead, to hold on to their vivid hue before plunging down to the ashen earth.

For how alluring it is to be both beautiful and dying.

I step on the crackling autumn leaves below, Nature’s decrepit reminder that everything is temporary.

Removing my hat, (Is my hair thinning?), I shuffle into the cafe, walking towards the counter to place my order.

“Just some tea, Miss?” the clerk asks at the counter, “Would you care for a pastry?”

“No, that will be all”, I reply, my eyes glossing over the cafe’s perimeter to find an empty table. I choose the one in the back corner of the shop, comfortably apart from everyone else: not as a pariah, not as I am at home, but as a nobility, too cold and enigmatic for anyone to even consider disturbing me.

With an untainted stomach and a clear head, I open my journal and begin to write.

Struggling for inspiration, I glance around the cafe. A multifarious cast of characters occupy the wooden tables, hands flailing in enthusiastic narration, eyes widening at brazen remarks, loquacious voices disturbing the peace.

“And just what do you think you’re looking at?!” a young woman’s voice suddenly shouts.

I look up and see the woman standing before me. She is beautiful, and dressed exquisitely, with garish jewels that somehow gleam elegantly around her long, slender neck. Her comely face is painted with shades of crimson and violet. She is obviously wealthy, some eccentric combination of an old money debutante and a newly rich socialite.

“Where are your manners? Didn’t your Mama tell you it’s not polite to stare?!”, she presses.

“Pardon me, Miss, but I was not looking your way”, I sigh, “I was merely having my tea. I apologize for the misunderstanding.”

She pauses. I pick up my pen in anticipation of her departure. I came to London to work undisturbed, not to argue with strangers.

Instead, she opens her tiny, doll-like mouth in embarrassment. Her face softens.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am”, she replies, suddenly shifting her demeanor, “I guess I’m just upset.
My husband said I have to stop my dancing career, so I took my anger out on you. I’m awfully sorry. I feel like a fool.”

A lone tear escapes her eye, rimmed with charcoal and powder. Suddenly, like a rusty, stalling hose, the single tear proliferates into a burst of droplets spilling down her face, blackened from her makeup.

“It is quite alright, Miss”, I start reluctantly, “My family wants me to stop writing, just like your, er, dancing, did you say it was? Yes, dancing, yes. You are not the fool, Miss, your husband is.”

To my surprise, an ecstatic grin appears on her momentarily sobbing face.

“Aw, you think so?” she asks, plopping down capriciously in the empty seat across from me.

The woman extends her dainty hand, her diamond ring glistening even under the dim lighting of the cafe.

“I’m Mrs. Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald”, the woman declared, “My husband, Francis, and I are vacationing here in London for a few weeks before we go back to Paris.”

“And I am called Adeline”, I echo. 

“Oh, Adeline”, Zelda moans, lighting a cigarette,“How come the boys get to have all the fun?”

“It is quite vexing”, I reply.

“I mean”, Zelda starts, “why should my husband get to write all of these books, half of them stolen from my diary, and meet all of these fabulous people, while I can’t even pursue my ballet career, for Christ’s sake?!” 

“I know what you mean. My husband owns a publishing company, and although he seems receptive to my writing career, he just doesn’t realize how much he stifles me. My family is even worse,” I complain.

“Aw, I’m sorry. What’s your family like, Adeline? You got kids?” Zelda asks.

For some reason, at the mention of family, of kids, the words cradled in her disarming Southern drawl, I close my notebook and take a deep breath.

Zelda nods sympathetically as I explain my situation. Her eyes widen at the mention of my mother, my sister, my husband, the dismal move to the countryside, the hospital, the doctors, their inexorable contention that I was unfit to be a mother.

“Well, that’s just awful!” Zelda exclaims, “It’s a darn shame that we have to put up with our husbands, our doctors, and everyone else in this awful, awful, world!” she cries, her arms slamming on the table with a loud Thud. Everyone in the cafe is staring at us.

“Well, what can women like us do?”, I remark, “I say, a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction, or dance ballet, or have any sort of undomesticated career whatsoever.”

“Amen sister”,  says Zelda. She fishes out a slim, silver flask from her purse.

“You want me to put a little in your tea?” she offers.

“No, thank you.”

“Suit yourself. My husband, that jerk, he made me quit drinking when I was pregnant”, Zelda complained, “He said it would hurt the baby or something.”

My smile drained at the mention of a baby. Zelda promptly noticed.

“Oh, I’m sorry doll,” she said, “Having kids ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Besides, they absolutely ruin your figure.”

After finally saying goodbye to Zelda (“Well goodbye now, Adeline”, she waved, lighting yet another cigarette, like clockwork) and leaving the cafe, I board the train home.

I brave the inevitable interrogation of my husband (Where were you? Why do you insist on going to London every day? Why can’t you just write at home? Who were you with?), and trudge upstairs, each step feeling as if I have chains shackled to my feet, like a prisoner fighting gravity.

The chain breaks as I enter my room, shutting the door behind me. Finally, I am alone. I take a deep breath and enjoy the silence. “Huh”, I think to myself. I expected this to feel a lot better than it does. Most days, I wait in anticipation for this one moment of total peace and privacy. It’s usually calming, comfortable, freeing. Usually. But today is different. Today I think of the cafe, of Zelda, of preferring her company to my own.

Today, I look forward to tomorrow.

The next morning I’m up with the birds; I can hear them joyously chirping, singing in a dead language somehow miraculously brought back to life. Without hesitation, I dash outside toward the station to catch the London train, glancing over my shoulder to check that no one saw me leave. Traipsing into the cafe, I place my order (“One tea please, no milk, no sugar, no pastry, yes, I’m absolutely sure”), and survey the customers, hoping to find Zelda.

Suddenly, I hear a man’s voice roaring from the other side of the cafe.

“You can’t even fry an egg, Zelda! The house is in shambles! All you do is bounce around in the living room all day!”

“I am not ‘bouncing around’ Francis! I’m practicing my ballet dancing, not that you would care!” I hear Zelda retort back to the man, presumably her husband.

I suppose she brought company today.

“Well I’m trying to write in peace, to support us financially, and I just can’t concentrate with that stupid music and your stupid prancing around in the next room!”

“Oh please, that last book you wrote, what was it called?” she bellows, stumbling, gulping from her silver flask.

“This Side of Paradise? The top selling novel in multiple countries? Don’t pretend that you don’t know, dear.”

“Yea, that one”, she says, regaining her balance, “You stole that whole dang book from my diary, ver-bat-UHM and what do I get? A cheap ring and a husband with a wandering eye!”

“I’m the one with the wandering eye?!” Francis snaps, his voice escalating, “What about that French pilot to whom you took such a liking?!”

“Francis, you’re crazy!” Zelda shouts, glancing around the cafe to view the transfixed patrons. Our eyes lock, like the lock to a sticky door that refuses to be opened, no matter how hard anyone tries.

“Adeline! Adeline!” she booms, “Look Francis, I have a friend, Adeline! She believes me!”

Francis squints in my direction from the other side of the cafe. Once again, everyone stares.

“It’s true, Francis!” she continues, “She says it’s your fault that I’m not a prima ballerina! She says you’re a fool!”

Zelda and Francis both look at me in anticipation.

“Tell him, Adeline!” shouts Zelda.

“I...Um…” I start. I can feel the heated glare of every patron’s eyes transfixed expectedly on me.

Just then, the owner of the cafe runs out from behind the counter, grunting.

“Out of my cafe! Both of you!” he demands to Zelda and Francis.

“Very, well then”, Francis states, regaining some semblance of dignity, “Let’s go home, Zelda. And say goodbye to your friend, dear. You won’t be leaving the house for awhile if I can help it.” He clutches her arm, not unkindly, and leads her out of the cafe.

“Adeline! You gotta help me! Just know that if I go missing, it’s because of him!” Zelda cries, her ring flickering on her free, outstretched arm.

“Drivel, pure drivel”, Francis mutters as he exits the cafe, letting the brusque wind explode the paper napkins into flight.

“See, Francis, I made a friend, and you’re just jealous of her! I’m more than just your wife, you know!” Zelda grunts before following her husband out the door.

Although that was the last I ever saw of Zelda Fitzgerald, I thought constantly of her, of her life, of the events that unfolded over the course of those two fateful days in London. What a shame, I thought to myself, that such a brilliant, talented, charismatic woman is so belittled, merely treated as an extension of her husband. At the cafe, emotional, drunk, smoke pouring out of her rouged lips, Zelda behaved a bit...theatrically, yes. However, something about her charming smile, her kind, understanding gaze, the way she tosses her hair over her shoulder, elegant yet playful, made me believe that she was a completely different person when she had to be. A perfect wife on the surface, holding everything together seamlessly while she privately longs to cut the threads. Zelda, I decided, would be my muse; as both the dazzling homemaker, whom everyone wants to know, and the deranged madwoman, whom no one bothers to understand. I, however, would make a small adjustment. I would sharply divide these personalities into two separate, distinct characters, independent of each other while somehow connected to each other.

“Virginia, would you please come downstairs and eat something?” my husband asked from the other side of the bedroom door.

“Not now, Leonard”, I sighed, “I’m busy writing.”

I open my notebook, pick up my pen, and begin the first sentence.

Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.