Assessing a Fashion Assassin

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    On a tall stool, situated with its fashionably teeny table, parlaying a thin non-fiction volume, breve ristretto, 85% Trader Joe’s chocolate, some serviettes on which to write, and a few erotic bookmarks to amuse myself with whatever I happen to be reading (or not) …a young woman entered the urban café I was frequenting at the time.

    I did not see her enter the old glass and wood door, but upon reaching the point of my gaze, our eyes locked and I suddenly could not see the room, her body or even her eyes~ only a shimmering pulsating effect completely filling my whole field of vision, resembling a huge black and white focusing pattern that cinematographers have long used to ascertain lens focus marks when prepping a camera package before a film production.

    Upon regaining my ability to see,  she had turned away, apparently— and already had made her way to the counter to order. As long as her gaze wasn’t on me I could see her plainly. She seemed a posh 20-something with perfect bangs and long black hair, a professional manner, and a clear, friendly voice. She seemed the Café Americano type.

    Her impeccable wardrobe was a whiff of NYC or Paris… her diamond-shape cape/shawl garment went just to the knee so the tops of her slim leather boots were hidden. The worsted wool textures, buttons, detail, colour, silhouette, everything about her look was fresh and daring, avant-garde even, but still lovely, perfect, really perfect. The line of the cape may have possibly been inspired by high-altitude Andes women’s tribal-wear, but there wasn’t a stitch that was notably attributable or suggestive of that, in terms of the unique design, texture, or boldness of hue.

    I turned my gaze out the very large plate glass window behind me onto the gray, snow-piled scene looking towards the State Capital building. At some point she must have gathered her order and when she approached the door to exit, I could feel the weight of her eyes once again upon me— but the light-show was not to be. It was with a sense of independent self-possession, an audacity unafraid to miss out in spite of her inconceivable gravitas, that I just kept observing the already cold mid-afternoon vista getting cooler in spite of the pressure I felt from her, simply willing me to  s u b m i t .

    I also wouldn’t deign to follow her exit, but I did see her go by quite ordinarily in a très shiny black Stuttgart SUV and out the parking lot, where she turned onto the Paseo de Peralta and beyond my view. My gaze didn’t linger~ it was obvious that her garaged ride is absentee-owned, and perpetually under lock and key deep in the east-side of town… she had no doubt just flown in from the biG City~

    And so I assessed (correctly, so far) that I will never see her again…❤

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