The woman’s lips naturally sank on
her face like those of a parrotfish. In color they were of raspberry-mocha, a
color just as unnatural gracing her lips as it was in her hair. The roots upon
hear head were spackled with grey in uneven rows, and the pepper line of her
part divided her mottled hair just off center. Its bushy consistency was pulled
back in thick blobs of crimped locks through the repetitive obsessive
compulsive brushing of tightly curled hair.
Her visage
was almost monochromatic: she wore the brown college sweatshirt of someone thirty
years younger and 40 pounds heavier, over an almost orange merone blouse. Her
skirt was oaken; her nails copper mist; her shoes, salt crusted cowhide. Her
chin she held high so that her nose could reign over the culinary talk
unfolding below her. Each nostril gazed in strict judgment over the scents of
buttermilk, eggs, sauerkraut and wine, inhaling the sour cheese and olive
groves from a cafeteria-dining box. There are barrettes trying to stretch the
corners of her face like a taut sheet. She sits, bargain knockoff feet resting
on the third stair from the top, trying to retain, with posture, the indignity
of crouching on the stained carpet in a velveteen walnut ankle biting skirt.
Deep-set
eyes gloom upon the scene, lit only by faint skin colored eyelashes. Her lips
purse and suddenly she is Mona Lisa, frowning at the spoken words of carbs,
from a supermodel no less, wishing she could eat like an Italian and stay that
skinny. She adjusted her seat, tossing her stretched mane like a painter’s
muse. She shall never know that she was the inspiration for this small
scribbled moment. She will not know her frown fish lips, angular and drooping
face, and olivmatic skins have made her immortal in print. Yes, I have made you
immortal.
©2014 Lex Vex
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