Lonely Sundays

By Quee

This is a bit of a depressing Sunday in the Park with George piece from the point of view of a lonely Dot as she longs for George and the way things used to be. This was thrown together rather fast due to a rather whimsical urge on my part to see a SIPWG fic on fanfiction.net, so I hope no one's too disappointed with it's quality.

Disclaimer: I own a small country north of France, the third tallest free standing structure in the world, an ant named Herman, and a few hundred oxygen molecules, but not, *sigh* Sunday in the Park with George or any other of Stephen Sondheim's brilliant shows.

It was Sunday.

The minute we got off the ship, I visited a park nearby.

I had never felt so empty.

Nothing was right.

The trees were sparse, the people were loud and rude, and even the smell was wrong, the air not quite so fresh.

The colours were wrong. Not enough blue or green. Or red. Too much yellow and brown.

It was so hot, sweltering even. I never ought to have complained about the temperature on La Grande Jatte. A trickle of sweat is cooling, refreshing. To feel as though one is leaking with sweat is enough to make you cry.

Worst of course, was that you were not there.

Here I was. Sunday, in a park, with no George.

I hated Louis, and then I hated myself for being so cruel, for he had done nothing wrong. But he was, is, will never be you.

No one here appreciates true beauty like you George.

There are no painter, no pads, no sketchbooks.

There is no life.

I cannot begin to count the number of times I apologized to Marie that night as I held her in my arms.

She would never meet you, never meet her father.

For no matter what you may have said, George, Louis was not her father.

Oh, George, how you would have liked her.

Loved her.

And she would have loved you.

What I would not give for another chance to love both of you at once.

I began to take Marie to the park on Sundays.

It was still horrid, yellow, and brown and loud, and smelly.

And lonely.

I taught her to read as soon as I myself had learned.

I did learn to do it, George.

I wanted to show you, to prove it, but of course I could not.

And so I read aloud one Sunday to myself in the park.

I hoped that you might be able to hear me somehow.

Foolish of me, perhaps.

All the other people at the park thought I was mad, but I didn't care.

Once I sent you a letter, but I doubt you ever received it.

Instead of a reply, I received a notice telling me you were gone.

I stopped going to the park for several weeks.

I had been saving up to come visit you, you know.

I used the money to buy a new dress for Marie.

She was lovely in it. She is such a sweet child.

You would have loved to have seen her in it.

So many colours.

I saw your painting once.

I showed it to Marie, and introduced her to our perfect park.

I told her who all the people were, and she asked where you were.

I cried as I told her you had left no copy of yourself for the world to treasure.

It is truly our loss.

You were beautiful, George.

Someday, we will meet again, my love.

I am getting on in years, as I'm sure you know.

I have but one selfish request in my prayers.

That when I go, I go on a Sunday.

Someday, colour and light will join us again.

And we will belong together.

Strolling away on Sundays in our perfect park.