I had my T-Dot Writer’s Group Meet-up last night, and the assignment was to do a character profile. Here’s what I wrote:
There she is. Over there. In that crowd. Behind the woman who looks exactly like her. Beside the girl who aspires to become her. And there’s the old lady who wishes she had those legs again.
Do you see her?
She’s wearing a trench, open to the wind, with a vibrant silk scarf slung hastily around her neck. A splash of colour against her pale skin.
Her power suit consists of a midnight blue fitted blazer, a short skirt of matching hue and a beige tank top. Just bland enough for the office, but showing enough skin to manipulate even the strongest conviction.
Her dark sunglasses cover her eyes, and her eyebrows, and the bags under her eyes. You can’t see where she’s looking. She could be walking with her eyes closed.
Her hair looks unkempt, but you can tell she uses the most expensive conditioners; there are no split ends in sight. You can’t tell what colour it is, the highlights glint in the sunshine and there is nothing natural about it.
Her feet are cinched into strappy sandals, most inappropriate for walking. They make her look tall, and they make her calves look skinny and muscular. But in the middle of the night she has to get up and walk around in them, so her back will stop hurting.
She carries the ugliest bag you’ve ever seen, made desirable and couth by the initials stamped onto the side. DK or CK or DG or CC; so small they’re like a secret. But you know they’re there, because the bag is so ugly.
Two steps behind her is her partner. He is tall, dark and handsome- every girl’s dream. She forgets he’s there.
This is the cosmopolitan woman. My adversary. My idol.
A paradox in heels.