See her in my eyes with no makeup except for the shiny lip gloss creamily applied to her bow-shaped lips. But her colours are completely transformed as to when we first shared eyes, or crossed paths, a whole different prize .
A silvery, sparkling blouse made of the finest mousseline de soie I picture you in. The monochrome skirt classically cut to end three inches below the knees all in thought. The burgundy shoes sedately burnished,set to match mine.
The multi-coloured shawl draped over her shoulders bearing the signature of Paloma Picasso, a gesture of respect she implied, she a work of art, arteritis that’s rubor to all hurt & pain inflicted before.
Attentive as on a discordant note: she labels me anxious with my nails bitten to the quick, don’t it hurt she asked, the cerise polish bestowed on them calling attention to their shabby state, to me it tastes bad for me to bite twice, I replied in defence. A splendid composition, so different from the young woman who arrived on my doorstep from time to time. That person was also clad in formality, as if in court. Work weeds?,
I had asked myself that first day. The button-through silk shirt had a fitted bodice, a dolman top with a stand-up collar, and a flared skirt with panels of knife pleats.
Expensive clothing, amazed at how much I observe—and remember—about the appearance of my customers; what Mrs. X wore the other day, the loud necktie impulsively acquired by mousy Mr. Z (is there a transformation in progress?—something I have picked in compliment, it’s all confidence. I love the manner in which it changes their posture, how they walk and present themselves longing to be seen as they’re heard. Importance given to the deservedly and all that kept reserved.