The deathly nourishment of systematic head spins, embroiled to her bony fingers gave her existence the mere ability to confuse what could be with what is now. Her mind a whistle blower for ‘even’ events of the lateral cosmos. How does a temptress record such gen? Certainly not by audacity. Surplus to requirements she regarded vanity. Yet, despite first impressions there was this obvious sex appeal, for which she was unaware. This made her beautiful. Addictive – fascinating. Unlike any other.
An incurable complication of self-styling – due to her often laddered panty hose or American tan hold up stockings, that should be worn with garters. She didn’t care, what the fuck did it matter?
A hole in one worn out Cuban healed, patent leather – black slip on brogue but the other perfect. Perhaps she’d bought two pairs and wore one of each? She did things like that. One for later ‘ron.’ Fashion moves fast, buy two – be vintage. Bygone years dig out originality and it doesn’t cost a penny. Although, she can afford it. More fun than being poor.
A blue and white gingham curtain – not a wall, divided the office next to her bedroom. For which had pristine Japanese silk sheets – embroidered with tear drop paisley, light brown and fawn cottons. Probably stitched by hand, way back in time. A perfect boudoir. Unlike her clue splattered desk. A great wrought iron tubular bed – unpainted. Boulder like brass bed knobs.
Her bureau – yes back to the desk. An old dark oak piece with a deep blood red, leather top layer, gilded in filigree gold edge detail, set into the surface like cracked icing. Priceless antique. She got it from the actor who dwelled there before. It wouldn’t fit through the door. So, I suppose that’s why he let her keep it?
Once a stately home ‘unlisted’ now apartments. She never regretted the refurbishment. Why should she need space? It just makes dust. So, she dwells quite comfortably in the attic with her cats that come and go by means of the mezzanine stair well – should there be a fire. None of them are hers. You never own a feline. She just feeds them real fish from the mongers, just around the corner – on the next road down.
She has no regrets. Only because she doesn’t care. How can caring cure pain?
The actor who left the desk ‘well, bureau’ once was her husband. At least she kept the house. Although she didn’t want that either. A shed would be fine – but then, where would she keep her piano? So, apartments will do. For now, anyway.
Tiffany Belle Harper ©