She’s been sitting on that bar stool for over half an hour, nursing the same drink too. Well, I’ve not seen her order another in all the time I’ve been watching. She really is a sight, you know. A vision in black, save for a scarlet ribbon ’round her neck. I’ve been studying her for that same over half-hour, and somehow I still ain’t tired of that tableaux.
She’s sitin’ on that stool, one leg over other, just resting her lower foot on the stool’s crossbar. The coat – that huge long coat – hangs down her back, a black vertical line about a foot from the floor. Her feet and legs are swathed in seemingly continuous black boots. They must be cloth, I think; they’re matte, not shiny as leather is. They’re not high heels either, a slight surprise that [I saw her come in so I know she has shorter legs than most]. My eye follows up the curve of her thigh, pausing to admire the taut but ample backside. She has a slight paunch, it’s true, but what can I say? I like my women so there’s something to hold on to.
Heh, and so we get to the chest. May as well call me a perv right here and now. She’s wearing a low top, heart shaped I think the ladies call it. Whatever – it has a plunging neckline. Plenty of cleavage showing there, if y’ catch my drift. Decent cleavage too – not like some of these whippets. May as well be boys, that much as they got. It’s funny though; for someone who seems so comfortable in that kind of attire, her skin is very pale, not exactly snowy, but not quite as sun-warmed as the rest of us.
Her coat seems thick, a wonder she still has it on, the temperature it is in here. But then maybe she doesn’t have any sleeves to that pretty top of hers – hard to tell from where I’m at. But still. Hard to see her face from here too, but I reckon she has handsome features. If the profile is anything to go by, she’ll have a cute chin, maybe an average nose – strong features, but not sharp. Too young maybe, but laughter- not worry-lines adorn the edges of her eyes. Ah but now I’m just fantasising.
Her hair, shining brown and gold in this light, might have been done up for the night – it’s been pulled back into a half-bun, a silver grip spearing and holding it in place. Wispy gold strands escape, framing her face, softening it. She seems to be gazing – mournfully maybe – down at her half-finished drink, a Martini if the glass and olive are anything to go by. Two leather gloved hands rest gently on the glass’s base, turning it occasionally. And so. The barman has called time. She does not move, yet it is time for me to retire. I wonder if she’ll be here tomorrow – to see her again would be a delight on my aged eyes…
☮&♥
