The skin tone is what I think of as coffee color, the brand of strong, robust coffee just one shot shy of espresso strength but close. The coffee has cream in it, hence the shading. There’s also a hint of cinnamon – not strong – just a hint, and the background noise carries a caramel flavor.
She’s tall. Her skin seems to be seamless and flawless, in a passing glance. Talking on the phone, cooly pacing back and forth. Her hair is short and at one time, it was a coarse silk jet black. Shortened, partially tied back in a bun, that hair’s been teased and chemically adjusted until it has blond streaks that makes for effective and expensive presentation.
She’s wearing black tights, low flats with just enough heel that they click as she paces on the concrete. It’s an animated phone conversation and I get a quick, very dismissive glance as she runs her eyes over me. But just once.
She’s tall compared to her supposed peers. The eyes, they linger, and that’s what stands out. The effect isn’t lost. Black tights, a simple yet somehow expensive black blouse, and the eyeliner. When pure Anglo women use that much black to outline the eyes, the results beg comparison to professional sex tradesmen. Yet against the coffee complexion, that thick black line just accentuates the brown-black eyes beneath the highlighted mane.
She moves with grace, a woman comfortable being in her own skin. Not quite prowling but almost a predatory cadence, click, click, heels on smooth concrete.
She leaves an expensive and distinct cloud of perfume in her wake.
Laeti edimus qui nos subigant!
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Waterloo & City Line.