As most everybody knows, I am a creature of mystery. I rarely consent to have my photo taken (unless CatPaint is involved), and I respond vaguely to inquiries such as, “Paper or plastic, ma’am?” I have been known to walk along the shores of Lake Michigan at midnight, shrouded in mist, invoking the spirits of Moon and Darkness to wrap me in their icy embrace.
However, when an intrepid young journalist comes along and begs to interview me, eyes sparkling with hope for the future, pen poised, hair coiffed, I find it hard to say no. After all, I, too, was young once.
Journalist: Good evening, Ms. Tori. Thank you so much for agreeing to this interview.
Me: Not at all. It’s a pleasure.
Journalist: You’re famously enigmatic and hard to pin down. Why do you enjoy living so far from the public eye?
Me: When the world turned its back on me, I turned my back on it.
Journalist: Could you elaborate?
Me: Once, I was great. Once, I had the kisses of a thousand young men at my command. I had only to drop my handkerchief, and the handsomest courtesans in the land would gallop forth on their frothing stallions to do my will.
Journalist: What year are we talking, here?
Me: But everything changed when the king took me for his wife.
Journalist: The king?
Me: Yes, the king. The handsomest young man in all of Christendom. Tall, golden-haired, a savvy falconer and the undisputed champion of the joust.
Journalist: Did you love him?
Me: DID I LOVE HIM? (I stand up, my trailing silver gown sweeping the floor, and rush to the window. I lean my aristocratic profile on one slim, wrinkled hand, heavy with scarab rings. My French hood is set far back on my head.) Yes, I loved him. I loved him very much. But he loved…her.
Me: JANE SEYMOUR!
Journalist: Wait. Are you describing the last half of The Other Boleyn Girl?
Journalist: Yes you are.
Me: NO I AM NOT! HE BEDDED AND BEHEADED ME!
Journalist: Yeah, you’re definitely describing The Other Boleyn Girl.
Me: CURSE YOU, YOU PAPIST! THE HOST IS NOT HIS FLESH AND BLOOD! THE HOST IS NOT HIS FLESH AND BLOOD!
Journalist: What’s your favorite color?
Me: Tudor green, my liege.
Journalist: You are SO describin–
Me: Leave me, fool.