This my first entry for Magpie Tales, hosted here by Willow. Go visit and and you’ll find the work of some very creative people.
une femme d’un certain âge
All eyes were drawn to the lusty laugh ringing out from across the room. I was instantly reminded of that voice you so often “hear” in literature and music. She had a deep, throaty, whiskey-and-cigarettes voice that said “I’ve been there.” The sound of that voice laughing, sexy and uninhibited, invited the listener to go there too.
The surprise came when she turned around. She was somewhere north of eighty, with snow white hair swept back into a haphazard chignon of sorts, fastened with a big barrette. Her glasses were set in unremarkable silver frames and her lips were colored a deep burgundy, neither of which did much to add color to her wrinkled face. She wore black trousers and a black silk blouse, the somber effect relieved only by a tumble of brightly colored necklaces cascading from her neck. She was shod in simple shoes, and carried a handbag that looked as if she could produce anything you needed from its depths.
In short, she looked like somebody’s grandmother, and probably was.
But there was that laugh! There was nothing grandmotherly about that. Unable to help myself, I went to her, curious to resolve my confusion with the whole Kathleen Turner-Helen Hayes thing. As I reached her side, she turned to look at me. Peering out from behind her aged face was the sexy young woman she had once been. Her lively eyes pierced me like shards of arctic blue ice twinkling in the sunlight, and I was smitten.