Notebook 15.12

Her hair is impeccably styled, dyed a bright blonde. An unearthly blonde. She holds a magazine in her lap, one of those thick-bound publications, printed on heavy, glossy pages, seemingly full of only advertisements for shiny, gaudy items. The type of magazine that doesn’t fit in a mailbox slit. All that she wears but her bangles and watch is black. She flicks the next page, then the next. The world passes. She plucks a small bottle from her bag, unscrews the cap and squirts it into her open palm. The entire time barely taking her eyes from the page. She drops the bottle in her bag rubs the lotion into her hands, working it into the palms then the back of her hands and between the fingers, turns the page. Large round sunglasses cover her eyes. Her head stays bowed, never looking up. She turns the page. Nothing she sees changes her expression. She wears tights, one leg hanging over the other. She bounces this top leg slightly. Not impatiently, out of habit. She puts her hand in her bag and brings out her phone. She opens it, then claps it shut. She turns the page. The ads are for products made of golds and silvers. The pages are dark, made up of blacks and greys and whites that are made to look dark. She turns the page. The models are gangly and sleek, but not in the way the words ‘gangly’ and ’sleek’ suggest. A sliver of blonde hair hangs over the side of her sunglasses. She flicks the page. She scans this new one, raises her hand, forefinger extended, other fingers curled, then pulls back. And stops to read.

LI

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