Monday, April 26, 2010


She had inherited her own mustard coloured armchair,
next to the window which was always left open.
She never ordered food, I suppose she fed off the light.

She would walk into the cafe parlour with the sunrise, hanging just at the tail of her long draped dress. And would walk out with the full moon just at the tip of her tongue.

The parlour drenched of her aroma.
The haunting smell of rose milk which kept all the waiters hypnotised until moonlight.

Rare did she share direct eye contact with strangers hands that stroked her hair,
as she sat quietly on her armchair facing towards the open window.
Her hands covered in nude lace gloves, revealed only a splash of red nail varnish.
Being the only colour she wore.

The rest of her body remained mystery. Only her face and hair appeared everyday though the royal blue doors of the parlour.

Casual love affairs would sometimes come around in the afternoon to greet her.
A chair was placed by her side, rigid and empty. She never seemed to acknowledge them, as if she had been accused of knowing a man which called her by what really wasn't even her real name.
When she got nervous she would have the tendency to hold her glass of red wine & rest it in between her legs.
Making the male, loose direct contact with her eyes, and lead him to travel beyond the redness of the devils drink.

No encounter would ever make her think. Only she understood why humans had to become something so redundant in her life. Emotionless.
Only she understood why she didn't want to talk.

Now- follow the description that you just read.

It carried on for another 859 days.

Grey hair, which rested like a garden on her back recollected many of those who watched her gaze through the evolution of days light.
Her last tea cup embodied with her touch.
Her napkin embroided with her lipstick.

A nude glove rested on the parlours floor
next to a decadent arm chair,
which sat forever firmly next to a closed window.