Tall with long legs. Long and smooth, running on for miles. Elegant and shear.
She was dressing in a tee shirt, worn transparent with years. Skin showed through the fabric. When the lady spoke, her head lifted swiftly and he chin cut into the space where her floating words lingered. Her speech was confident. The words moved from her mouth, passing over her tongue coated with bubble gum. They traveled into the ears of those standing by her corner table in the coffee house she frequented on Tuesday evenings.
When Suzanne and Maggie sang their florid duets on Thursdays at Walt’s R&R, the long-legged lass sat as if on her own island. The occasional gentleman offered drones about modern theatre. Her ears were deaf to such banter, her lips meekly pursed. She’d sit and let the serene vocals wash over her. The jazz accompaniment she absorbed through her pores.
On those nights she was sure to twist the overhanging lamp’s clouded bulb to give her face a shaded mystery. Light stuck her from above casting just enough shadow to cover the northern hemisphere of her face. It attracted souls partial to Russian novelists and dank conversation. She only spoke to those who took the first step in initiating conversation.