The Prufrock Monologues

“That was a splendid cup of tea,” Prufrock commented as he set the petite china cup down. He surveyed the low table in the middle of his sitting room. They had laid down the best china today, the finest porcelain Prufrock possessed, and, amazingly, they hadn’t broken a thing. Lying strewn across the table, like the wounded on a battlefield, were the remains of tea and toast, jams and preserves, and of course, butter. “And the toast was delicious too.”

The person sitting opposite Prufrock didn’t reply. They never really said much at all. Patiently, they crossed their legs and straightened the creases in their trousers. He was wearing clothes similar to Prufrock’s, almost the same in fact.

“Shall we leave these dishes until we come back? They won’t go anywhere, will they?” Prufrock asked, standing up promptly in an effort to be decisive. The person inclined their head and stared impassively at Prufrock, through intelligent spectacles. Contagiously, Prufrock resettled his own spectacles nervously. The one person he could never face up to, and he was stuck with them all his life.

Prufrock sighed and averted his gaze. Slowly he stalked towards the window and looked out. It was only half past four but the sun was already beginning to set over the austere façade of the city. It was the middle of October and the nights were drawing in.

Prufrock rested his head against the glass and smiled. Would it be tonight? Would he really go through with it? Could he really go through with it? Ah, but now, should he really go through with it? No, there was no more time to think like that. It had to be tonight.

“Let us go then, you and I,” Prufrock announced, suddenly galvanised into action. He swept through the room and on into the hallway. He flung his coat on and smartly settled his hat in its place upon his crown. His hand reached for the doorknob and gripped it tightly, pulling the stained oak back, revealing himself to the world. No one noticed. Prufrock stared out into the streets; they were deserted. No, that wasn’t quite right. They were more like half-deserted. Was it really worth it, to go out now of all times?

An almost imperceptible sound from behind him made Prufrock turn. They were standing there, in the hallway. They were carrying their hat and coat in their hands. Were they going out or not? They smiled at Prufrock, a small, near unnoticeable smile with the vaguest hint of smug superiority.

“I have to take this chance while I can, when the evening is spread out against the sky,” Prufrock snapped angrily, storming out the door, like a general leading his men on a suicidal march. The other person shrugged slightly and donned their hat and coat. They almost matched Prufrock’s in colour. Stepping quietly out of the house, they politely shut the door after them.

They quickly caught up with Prufrock, as his gallant striding, like that of a noble prince, had degenerated into a comical back-and-forth shuffling. Every few steps forward he took would be followed by a few nervous steps backwards. It wasn’t long before they were walking alongside Prufrock.

Prufrock looked around in fear and confusion. What if it wasn’t the right time? Would those dishes really be there for him to do when he got back? It was getting cold; perhaps he should turn back? But what would they say, those that were waiting for him? What would they say?

“Pining for a bit of company, sir?” a heavily rouged, low cut woman sidled up to him, crooking her hip suggestively. Prufrock turned to her uncertainly. She was definitely…alluring. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to lie with her for a night and day; his mouth was dry. In a bid to remain strong, he shoved his shaking hands into his pockets.

There he felt the starched card which had been sent to his house that morning. He remembered reading the fresh ink with much delight. That was why he was here now; that was why he should be at the sender’s house now. He had to be there. But could he really go? The person with Prufrock watched this little episode with mild amusement.

“No…no, thank you, ma’am,” Prufrock stuttered and stammered as he began to back away cautiously, in the direction of his original destination. The person with Prufrock nodded curtly to the prostitute and followed his companion, who had broken into a run.

Prufrock ran and ran. He wouldn’t run away today. He would see his plans through for once. To build up his confidence, he muttered his aim under his haggard breath, drawing the stares from the people still out on the streets.

The sweat pricked his forehead as he ran on. Prufrock knew he wasn’t in the best of shape. Secretly, he worried that all this undue exercise would make his hair fall out. He already suspected he had a bald spot on the back of his head.

Wrapped up in his own thoughts, Prufrock didn’t see the loose cobblestones and slipped on them effortlessly. He fell down and landed hard in the mud on the side of the mud. Pain shot through his body. He was thin for his height and was weaker than he should be.

The person with Prufrock stood over him on the pavement. He made no effort to help Prufrock up; he was just content to stand there and watch. Sighing, Prufrock painfully heaved himself upright. He looked up at the house they stood in front of. He recognized the name of the brass plaque mounted on the wall next to the front door. He was here; he had made it.

Slowly, gladly, Prufrock climbed the steps to the door. From inside the house, he could hear the shouts of joy and laughter of society. He grinned; he had made it this far. The hard part was over now. Hesitantly, Prufrock raised a finger to press the doorbell then stopped.

How could he show up now, as he was? He was sweaty, dirty and broken. They were the elite of the populace. What would they say if they saw him like this?

“What do you think of Michelangelo’s sculptures?” Someone questioned from inside. They confirmed his fears; he couldn’t show his face in there now, not like this. Prufrock looked from the window of the house, where host and guest alike were enjoying themselves, to the darkening streets, where that person was waiting for him. “Or are you more in favour of his paintings?”

With a dejected sigh, Prufrock resignedly descended the steps down to where they were waiting for him. There was a fog rolling in along the streets, the dense, wet, oppressive type. Miserably he began to trek home under the watchful gaze of that person.

“That’s it, John. It won’t be tonight,” the man with Prufrock chided, breaking their silence. “It’s a soft October night. Why don’t we get you warming by the fire? This fog is no good for your lungs.” Prufrock trudged home sadly. That puddle had been cold, and he felt a chill coming on. The man with Prufrock smiled; he knew what was best for him. He had known Prufrock all his life. He was always there, ready to tell Prufrock whether something was a good idea or not in his own subtle way.

“And indeed there will be time,”