Tinder dating.
Balancing on that tight rope between modern meat markets, vintage marriage proposals and a continuum of taffeta excuses for those with no idea about couture.
Coffee date number two,
torn between a Trelise Trelise Cooper bustle or Collette Dinnigan trousers, opting for mid length K-mart culottes and flat shoes – quite sensible really.
Then he makes a move, casually stroking her genius arm while he takes a business call leaning back on his wing.
It’s an affront to Cora’s touch-starved senses; Georgette raised speed bumps, bristle with expectations.
Its awkward for a moment –
deciding weather to pirouette or sashay onto the dancefloor with some spurious home truths.
Ta da!
‘I used to be a sex worker’,
she crowed, sipping on a nonchalant eyelash latte on the verge of treason
‘and if I decide to go back, you can’t stop me’.
Silence.
Ms Pearl takes another sip, the onslaught of ignorance threatening to tighten her whale bone corset breath, now held in contempt.
A standing ovation or white knuckled finale taking the bias edge out of contention, taking it all in.
See, she can’t see the point of another round of ruffles and rouge.
/
Spontaneous attraction hides in the shadows
of a cloak and dagger past life, frightened
by a mere unorthodox interlude.
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