Sunday, 7 March 2010

Was it the wind?



Was it the wind?  Or can I just catch their shadows, here outside the bar, if I narrow my eyes against the biting cold? The bare knuckles of their white hands holding cigarettes to blue lips. Warming herself on her own temper, she fizzes, shouts, jumps up and knocks over her chair, walks away unsteadily on high  heels.

2 comments:

Dale said...

:-) wonderful Jean!

Peter said...

What dale said.