Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1959)

breaking it is so awful, you feel so guilty She went in by the back door. She hoped her aunt would be too busy to notice. The light was on in the blue and white kitchen with its old iron stove and high wooden cupboards. Soon as she opened the door, she heard the gliding strains of piano music from the front room. She was lucky. Her aunt was teaching the piano to one of her students. Slowly, uncertainly, the pupil played the sad notes of the wistful tune, ‘“Souvenir,” and the lovely music dissolved her. She closed the back door quietly, sniffling from the tears that ached to be released, and she tiptoed through the carpeted hallway to the mahogany stairs in the hall. One of the floorboards squeaked under her feet, and her aunt, whose sensitive ears never failed to hear even a barely perceptible noise, called out, “Honey, is that you?” She swallowed hard and tried to speak. “Yes . . .” she said weakly, her voice muffled and trailing. Then she ran up the stairs, all buttoned up in her fitted brown woolen coat, bright red mitts and her rain galoshes. Once in her room, she breathed a sigh of relief. She closed the door and she fell across the white chenille bedspread, burying her face in the fluffy chenille and letting hot tears stream down her cheeks. Finally, lying there on the soft bed in her coat and gloves and boots, listening to the piano lesson continuing downstairs, her tears stopped. The February night had blued the window panes in her bedroom. She got up and took off her coat, snapping on the overhead light. Timidly she stopped, walked over to the long oval mirror with the dark wood frame above her dresser. ( Continued on page 100) Tempted? The new you will be having too much fun to mind having to say no to calories.