southern belle sits downing shots five minutes past midnight & counting fireflies lighting the skies thick with a choking humidity. liquor flasks bound to her thighs keep her grounded - she's keeping them a (shh) secret from her brazen beau who can't seem to keep his somethingorother from the primbutnotsoproper ladies of the night. she waits for him despite the fact that it pains her so to see him staggering home just before dawn with the reeking stench of sex and stds so strong that she can taste it (sour) on the tip of her tongue.
she smiled at the banquet (where they met) & promised her father she would love any man he chose (for her). licking her sandpaper lips (for a brisk moment of hydration), she smiles (againagainagain) at her father's (ohsonarrow) picking of a man. he treats her like a porcelain teacup for a week-or-so until he just can't take it anymore.
& & thus comes the nightly successions of awaitment (& fear) that she so dreads. her father only sees the beauty-of-the-two at daylight & would never to expect to find him spanking a bitch at the whorehouse with vodka leaking from his skin.