|
It wasn’t just her appearance; blonde hair done in a flamboyant coiffeur, a light pink snow jacket, one of those puffy ones, with pale blue jeans and knee high white leather boots. Sure, it got my attention. Mine and that of every other male watching her walk across the mall parking lot. Her face showed a lot of mileage and I figured she was my age, maybe older. She was headed in my direction. I thought she was going to walk past me, but one row away she stopped to unlock the door of a 1964 red Pontiac Grande AM. I knew the year and model. That was the car I wanted to buy when I got out of college. The license plate said, “Misty 1”. This was a lady with a story. I had an urge to roll down my window and shout “you go, girl,” but that would have been out of character for me. I expected her to drive away and I’d go about my errands. Then I saw her drop a small package. I hesitated; the hesitation of a married man. If my wife was with me, the package would have gone unnoticed, but she wasn’t. Suddenly I was getting out of the car and walking toward her. I picked up the package. “Excuse me, I think you dropped this.” I felt like a high school freshman talking to the leader of the cheerleading squad. She turned and I saw her face close up. This was no high school cheerleader. There were deep lines her makeup couldn’t hide and her skin showed too many days in the sun over too many summers. There was considerable cleavage in the V of her jacket, like a mountain pass to an unexplored land. Except I knew it wasn’t unexplored. Her eyes were deep blue and looked right at me with a kind of sparkle. This was a lady who knew how to laugh. “Why thank you.”
|
Misty 1 |
|
Magazine / Web Design by Sharon Berg
~ << >> ~
All work within this periodical is copyrighted by the authors and Big Pond Rumour, July 2007. No part to be copied or reproduced without written consent of the authors and Big Pond Rumour Press. |