Once upon a time, like five minutes ago, Dan’s attention was focussed on a shoulder supported by a striking clavicle.

At the throat, in the gap between the two clavicles, hung a brilliant stone; no, it’s of a translucent, hypnotic lustre, and it’s nestled there, on a thong.

The woman was on her own, and leaning back in the cane stoep chair.

Her dark eyes matched the stone.

Dan popped her cigs in the little clutch, swept her hair back, and strode over.

The woman had a tear bubbling in her eye, a great well of a tear, ready to drop.

But first, a slow slide down a flawless cheek. A snail’s trail of what?

Dan couldn’t imagine.

She cleared her throat.

Um, seems as if you could do with a tissue. Here’s a serviette. But I guess they call them napkins here in this posh spot.

What’s the matter.

The woman reached for the serviette, and held it in her left hand. She took her glasses off with the other, and put them on the table, squashing the arms in all at once. Her right hand quickly joined the left and they filled with serviette.

Her hot torrid tears hit the cloth before her face did.

The woman sobbed, a searing silent sickening rising, falling.

Sally grabbed a shot of single malt.

Here doll, take a sip of this.

If you don’t want that, here’s some rescue remedy.

Let’s go for  a walk now. 

It’s a beautiful spring day.

(to be continued)

 

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