i'm cooking the veggies and valuing myself! (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
themeletor) wrote2006-07-27 03:13 am
themeletor) wrote2006-07-27 03:13 am
Entry tags:
random writing dump, 271 words
This is the modern-day AU Tia Dalma who's been in my head for the past several days. I haven't the foggiest idea who the narrator is.
She's sitting by the window in a coffee shop I've never noticed before today, smoking a cigarette as though she could care less what the rest of the world has to say about it. The clothes she's wearing wander somewhere between "bohemian" and "bag-lady," but her eyes and the slant of her sleek black lips tell a story that's one hundred per cent Wicked Sophisticate.
I wonder what she's drinking; I imagine a rich, warm latte, the color of her skin. A shot of orange, a touch of spiced rum -- it's exotic, layered, and exhilirating, just like she is. She picks up the mug and it's an imperfect dove perched on the cage of her fingers, black lipstick a half-moon shaped bruise on its rim. I envy it.
I'm convinced I can smell her: a blend of chocolate and rum and the cigarette smoke that clings to her teeth and tongue in that second before she breathes it out. And there's something else, too, something spicy and feminine that I know I can't identify because it doesn't exist outside of this passing instant.
She's cool, and she smolders. She never looks at me but I feel like she's watching me, knowing me, learning my past and insinuating herself in my future. I wonder what she tastes like, behind those black-stained lips.
The light changes to green; a car drives past -- I lose sight of her, and then she's gone. All that's left is the smell of black rum, smoke, and bitter dark chocolate filtering through my air conditioning as I step on the gas and leave the intersection behind.
She's sitting by the window in a coffee shop I've never noticed before today, smoking a cigarette as though she could care less what the rest of the world has to say about it. The clothes she's wearing wander somewhere between "bohemian" and "bag-lady," but her eyes and the slant of her sleek black lips tell a story that's one hundred per cent Wicked Sophisticate.
I wonder what she's drinking; I imagine a rich, warm latte, the color of her skin. A shot of orange, a touch of spiced rum -- it's exotic, layered, and exhilirating, just like she is. She picks up the mug and it's an imperfect dove perched on the cage of her fingers, black lipstick a half-moon shaped bruise on its rim. I envy it.
I'm convinced I can smell her: a blend of chocolate and rum and the cigarette smoke that clings to her teeth and tongue in that second before she breathes it out. And there's something else, too, something spicy and feminine that I know I can't identify because it doesn't exist outside of this passing instant.
She's cool, and she smolders. She never looks at me but I feel like she's watching me, knowing me, learning my past and insinuating herself in my future. I wonder what she tastes like, behind those black-stained lips.
The light changes to green; a car drives past -- I lose sight of her, and then she's gone. All that's left is the smell of black rum, smoke, and bitter dark chocolate filtering through my air conditioning as I step on the gas and leave the intersection behind.
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