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