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PostcardThis story may contain adult content. |
| Written by Maybe | |
| Monday, 18 August 2008 | |
As she waited on rain soaked cement, deep in the trenches of Soho, hidden beneath a neon eclipse, her hair was wild and matted. It stood on end like naked branches deprived of their leaves during winter, a silhouette like an old man’s withered fingers stretched out, reaching for a full moon. A few strands were running down the side of her pale face and lying delicately around her black 60s style sun glasses. I watched as she delicately pursed a cigarette between her lips, lit it, and then with all the grace of a princess, adjusted her second hand laced white dress in a windows reflection. The stars and moon were just beginning to come alive behind her; they merged with the sickly neon to create a thick halo. She looked like a fabulously disheveled angel; either too precious or too demented for this world, but probably both. The shoes on her feet were meant for ballerinas, they were meant to be on the delicate young feet of a child who’s being lavished with love and adoration by her family. On her, you could see the unfinished red nail polish, and the varicose veins running like rivers through her laddered tights. She had all the airs and graces of boiling water in a wine glass, she held herself like a strung out Cinderella, and glided like a nun on the game. She began to slowly walk up to me, dancing majestically with the double Decker busses and black taxis rushing by, the red and blacks and sallow headlamps swallowing her hips and dancing in synch with the horns, screaming voices cackled and the light patter of the rain was always there. All of London’s fumes and gas’s rised up behind her slender pale shoulders and danced through the neon signs, heading for Venus and the stars, whilst dragging the gods from their hiding spaces. She pulled on her *** and her cheekbones shot out like knives through her young plaster skin. She couldn’t have been older than 25, but she moved like she'd been around since the Beginning. No one else seemed to notice her madcap beauty; they all took a step to the left and tried to discreetly look, in shock more than in awe I would assume. Mothers would shield their children under their coats and tell them to keep walking; young men would laugh, abuse and mock, then go do whatever it is young men do in London on a Saturday. But under my thread bear blanket, on this cold wet floor, and through these drunken eyes, I could see it. Copyright 2008 Maybe |
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| Last Updated ( Saturday, 23 August 2008 ) |
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