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Original - There is beauty there
Lounging in the chair by the pool she sat; her shoulder length hair blowing gently as the breeze went by. It was baby fine, and thinning on the top, but you couldn’t really tell.
She looked like she could have been an old glamour girl. The old fashion model that might have done pin-up on the side, that kind of girl.
Her beauty was there if you looked for it under the garishly thick make-up and the tanned skin. Her beauty was there, in the creases of her wrinkles and crows feet. It was there, under the ugly day-glow pink lipstick, and even there, where the chin hairs tried to hide.
Her fake nails, painted the same colour as her lipstick, could have held beauty, if they weren’t chipped and cracked.
She smiled and beckoned me closer.
I moved when the wind did. She smiled wider, showing her pearly white teeth, slightly yellowed by the cigarettes she smoked.
I watched as her little pink tongue darted out to try to moisturize her lips, the lipstick dry and caked on, giving not one ounce of wetness to help her speak.
She shimmied up into her seat, the rough plastic creaking under weight. There was an odd shimmer on her legs; she wasn’t? Oh! She was wearing pantyhose underneath her swimsuit. Her sky blue and desert orange-heeled sandals kept trying to slide off of her stocking covered feet. She only wore the sandals because they matched her tube-top swimsuit and hat. The stockings did help to hide the varicose veins on her legs, but, only slightly.
She motioned me closer yet, and again, the breeze blew, I moved, and so did her hair. Her smile grew wider.
She began to nod at me, like she was approving of what I was doing, or wanted to tell me a deep secret, in that semi-senile way that most elderly do. She looked almost foolish, bobbing her head, like some mad duck. Of course, since she had that air that she could have been a former glamour girl, she pulled it off, without being foolish, or mad: just an elderly woman, who had something to tell you.
The wind blew, and closer I came.
She bobbed more.
The wind caressed her cheek, and her eyelids, heavy with blue and orange make-up, closed.
I was at her side, when she opened her pale orbs to me.
Her mouth worked at the words.
The voice that poured out was sounded of no soft girlie drinks for her. It was the rough stuff, which old men drank, hard and on the rocks. Her voice was innocence lost, and had survived harder times.
There was something like fear brewing inside. What words would tumble out of her mouth? Would they be kind? Hateful? Spiteful? Lucid? I was soon to find out.
She smiled; her breath had the smell of the taste of her cigarettes. You didn’t have to smoke them to know the taste; oh no, you simply smell her breath.
Then, suddenly, she grasped at me, missed, and started laughing. Laughing out words that in a way scared me to the marrow.
Of course, if you were sitting at that poolside, and were watching this, you would see that she was talking to the wind. Nobody stood there, not a soul came closer as she bobbed her head like the mad duck, but nevertheless, she still whispered,
“You will be like me one day…”
She looked like she could have been an old glamour girl. The old fashion model that might have done pin-up on the side, that kind of girl.
Her beauty was there if you looked for it under the garishly thick make-up and the tanned skin. Her beauty was there, in the creases of her wrinkles and crows feet. It was there, under the ugly day-glow pink lipstick, and even there, where the chin hairs tried to hide.
Her fake nails, painted the same colour as her lipstick, could have held beauty, if they weren’t chipped and cracked.
She smiled and beckoned me closer.
I moved when the wind did. She smiled wider, showing her pearly white teeth, slightly yellowed by the cigarettes she smoked.
I watched as her little pink tongue darted out to try to moisturize her lips, the lipstick dry and caked on, giving not one ounce of wetness to help her speak.
She shimmied up into her seat, the rough plastic creaking under weight. There was an odd shimmer on her legs; she wasn’t? Oh! She was wearing pantyhose underneath her swimsuit. Her sky blue and desert orange-heeled sandals kept trying to slide off of her stocking covered feet. She only wore the sandals because they matched her tube-top swimsuit and hat. The stockings did help to hide the varicose veins on her legs, but, only slightly.
She motioned me closer yet, and again, the breeze blew, I moved, and so did her hair. Her smile grew wider.
She began to nod at me, like she was approving of what I was doing, or wanted to tell me a deep secret, in that semi-senile way that most elderly do. She looked almost foolish, bobbing her head, like some mad duck. Of course, since she had that air that she could have been a former glamour girl, she pulled it off, without being foolish, or mad: just an elderly woman, who had something to tell you.
The wind blew, and closer I came.
She bobbed more.
The wind caressed her cheek, and her eyelids, heavy with blue and orange make-up, closed.
I was at her side, when she opened her pale orbs to me.
Her mouth worked at the words.
The voice that poured out was sounded of no soft girlie drinks for her. It was the rough stuff, which old men drank, hard and on the rocks. Her voice was innocence lost, and had survived harder times.
There was something like fear brewing inside. What words would tumble out of her mouth? Would they be kind? Hateful? Spiteful? Lucid? I was soon to find out.
She smiled; her breath had the smell of the taste of her cigarettes. You didn’t have to smoke them to know the taste; oh no, you simply smell her breath.
Then, suddenly, she grasped at me, missed, and started laughing. Laughing out words that in a way scared me to the marrow.
Of course, if you were sitting at that poolside, and were watching this, you would see that she was talking to the wind. Nobody stood there, not a soul came closer as she bobbed her head like the mad duck, but nevertheless, she still whispered,
“You will be like me one day…”