Chorus

by austere seeker

Yvonne; she’s an Yvonne, that much I gather. At first I was stunned, strange chatter, wisps that would sneak up to puncture the quiet like a sudden radio blare - all oui’s and oo-lala’s. Rambunctious music like a tinny carousel waltz, jostling, laughter, the rustle of silk, and much clapping. In the corner sits a dwarf in a tall hat, beady eyes skimming the room past the crowd at his table, absinthe-high, a magician-wizard looking for images to trap in black charcoal on white. The image now crops up, dissolves when it so pleases - a creamy arm flung in abandon, foot lifted mid step, face ice-white with that painted pout and those eyes; they make one tremble. In coffee cup froth, in the mist on the bathroom mirror, in the jostling bazaar on my way home, in the conference room talking numbers, she drops in unannounced - first a trace of music-chatter, and then that floating wisp till the volume revs up, deafening, now you see her now you don’t, she grabs your arm and won’t let you be and you know it; tell, tell my tale! she insists.

6S

austere seeker, whose full catalog is here, lives, works, and writes in Mumbai.