An uncomfortable stench of dry winds plasters your crimson snout, which crisply shed flakes of the August work onto blistered lips, cleaved by exhaustion. Loose, grayed threads dangled before your vision, and you peer between the bars fleeting your father’s worn cap. You are immersed in your role of displaying the lethargic effects of a humid day when she struts into your sight.
With her frizzed hair, which was obviously dyed a squashy auburn in pathetic rebellion against aged strands, but instead only looked like a pumpkin massacre upon her head, she sashays along the steaming pavement with confidence of a woman who clearly does grasp the concept of using a mirror. Her lashes are coated by a coal-colored mishmash of sleep deprivation and erotic markings, with makeup clumping the corners as if gobs of burnt scrambled eggs lumped together with pecan jelly on the tip of a metal spoon, glimmering and oozing in the fumigation of noon. You cannot help but snicker, at the sight of her four-inch, wicker wedges, trimmed with a maroon lace that matches that collar of her vintage frock, which loosely shapes her worn figure as sashes down the rue. Then your small smirk vibrantly explodes into a gust of amusement, as you watch her gangly limbs clamber in between the gears and ligaments of a nearby bicycle. Then you’re doubled over, as her shoes clack along the pedals in a ridiculous fashion and she swings her handbag imprinted with some foreign letters, as if to express some sort of worldliness. Then you wonder.
You wonder- if she ever laughed-really laughed. With her mouth agape, spiting out a throaty cough concoction speckled with hiccups of free spirit that jab gently into the bores of childhood. One of those laughs, that only breathes into the musty hours of juvenile lovers, skimming pebbles as dawn breaks on the shallow ponds of the barren park that lies on the corner of ever lasting youth. That breaks into the silence, as his gawky hands tangle in spirals of chestnut locks, and he twirls each strand delicately as if coaxing the willows of a cherry blossom to hang on through the fall. It rings until his fingertips trace the ridge of her silken breast bone, and she is overwhelmed by a new found stream of desire dabbling in between the dewdrops caressing her calloused toes. Yet, it is only momentary delay, for as his hands strum her surface, a giggle spurts out, and both lovers cannot help but smile. For it is impossible to resist the joy of a young girl’s laugh, so utterly free and innocent. And he proceeds to play her as a novice musician, gently pressing along the keys of her body, while she squeals chords of strained delight. Strained, because it’s wrestled by an undertone of nerves triggered by feelings of defenselessness. Yet the nerves are suppressed by the forceful thrust shooting up her throat, making her forget all fear. Oh the infamous tickle- what a pleasant torture of life. And then once again, you wonder- if she, a woman whose smile must be painted on in the dim lit bath of a creaky, old house in the early hours of each day, once ever laughed-really laughed. Or if all her happiness was just grease mused into the rest of her appearance.
Then suddenly you realize her squashy auburn hair is diminishing from sight and rusty wheels creak away. Yet, your infatuation lingers, for this woman clonks along her path towards adventure with beads of sweat clouding her vision and you, a disgusting innate state tied to a grubby hometown, merely slump on your ass with frays of your father’s cap in yours, and well, it really makes you wonder-who should be laughing at who.