It was chaos. I had never seen anyone disrespect Gatsby in such a childish way: composed, he was internally more joyous than I’d ever witnessed. I’ve known Daisy from a young age, we would race our favourite horses around the fence line; even take a stab at polo all at our midwest cottage. Since then she hasn’t been the same: wanting to act like a suitable wife for Tom; she acted prim; functioning proper.
Now, to see her with Gatsby, she seemed cheerfully careless, there was no acting. Daisy was true to herself for the first time since we were kids. Blithe and gleeful, marching along the shelves, frantic as the streets of Austria on June 28, 1914. Tossing, twitching, turning shirts flew from the balcony. The joyous screeches, squeals and screams developing an electrifying atmosphere. It was a moment of true love for a life time. Gatsby was open armed on the floor looking skyward, splattered with the shirts like New Yorkers to Rhode island every Autumn.
The smile was present again, the smile from his first impression. Daisy began to see Gatsby from my perspective. The spotlight beading down on him; the energy around him and the ecstatic smile. The dressing room the size of my home now felt quaint with the reunion of my cousin and Jay Gatsby. Daisy, stepping down from the ladder and halting the propelled clothing to a considerable drop. Glaring down at Gatsby with his beaming simper; gazing back at Daisy with her eyes stunning in the sunlight, like pools of honey under flames. They were seemingly at peace. No money, no estates and no materials from Gatsby; no acting or playing.
Written by Ben Montgomery
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