Cafe de Desiree

July 23, 2013

a scene from my imagination

Filed under: dreams,fiction,story — desi83 @ 11:33 pm

An idea for a character that just popped in my head while bored at work…

A cigarette in her manicured hand, she crosses her long slender legs and dangles a black pump from her left foot. Her long blond hair drapes her back and shoulders in delicate waves. Her black satin dress plunges down revealing some of her small, round breasts and ends a few inches above her knees, so much of her creamy white skin is revealed. Upon first glance, she can’t be a day older than eighteen. Then if you look into her eyes, you see a woman much older than the years that she’s spent her on Earth. You see her wisdom, her jadedness, the pain that she felt but buried long ago, and a certain amount of suspicion about whomever crosses her path nowadays. She smiles a knowing smile. She knows why you are here looking at her, and she can see that you aren’t looking at her face. She knows what you are thinking when you look at her from her lips to her legs. She laughs quietly and waits to see how the scene will play out. She takes a long drag on her cigarette, the disgusting thing that she knows might kill her one day. Years ago she decided that life drags on for too many years with too much pain and nonsense to give up what makes it more tolerable, whatever the consequences. She fills her lungs up and exhales in satisfaction. She waits for you, already predicting how this will end. She stopped having expectations for this sort of situation years ago, when she really was a girl of about eighteen. She lives for the moment, the instant gratification, the excitement that she occasionally experiences that slowly fades into regret that she sweeps away into the hidden crevices of her memory. Along with those indiscretions lies the memories of a father whose fast living and bad habits took him to an early grave when she needed a father most. Then there is the boy. Sometimes she thinks of him…an embrace, a kiss, a promise, a fight… and her tired eyes fill with tears. It was a long time ago, she thinks. It doesn’t matter because it isn’t relevant anymore. She had her chance, and she lost it. This is life now: living fast, playing hard, and feeling good from temporary fixes. You tell her that she is beautiful, and she smirks. She’s heard it before. You tell her that she is different from all those other girls. She’s smarter, funnier, sexier. She laughs. Like that means anything, these empty words. She kisses you softly but intensely, so you begin to imagine her in your arms, naked, wanting you. She stops you and gazes at you with sadness in her deep blue eyes. It isn’t love, she says, and it never will be, will it? She chases whiskey with water and winces. “I’ve never made love sober before.”


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