“Write about me,” simpered the well-dressed woman in silver, “Aw, you guys can do it if you want, you know.” She cooed, pouting her sheer lacquered lips. The scribe expanded for a second, pleased with the attention. She was the Diva of the Social Kingdom and she was at his feet. It was a good feeling. Momentary though it was.
She posed, her hands on her evening purse, her silk shirt simmering. Click, click, click. It was a good feeling. For tomorrow the world would call to wonder how she did it, again.
She would laugh casually, her voice tinkling down the line, sounding oh so blasé. “I don’t know really,” she would say in that ‘oh but you should know’ tone of voice, “They are there everywhere I go. And they come running after me for my pictures.”
Voices would be laced with envy, some with thinly veiled disgust. Some would cringe a bit, roll over low just so that they could accompany her to the next do. She would consider THAT, and perhaps do just that – take along a bit of company for an ego massage. Sometimes it did wonders for your own self.
And then, it gave her a bit of a high when she bumped into the now ‘fading’ Diva, a bit outdated in her loud dull pink lipstick, and what would now be slightly ‘tarty’ evening wear. Her self at the moment would soar high past her Manolo Blahniks, past the Bangkok-bought dress, over the MAC make-up and the salon-styled hair.
The trouble she took just to be photographed.
Not that she was a bimbo really. She had a mind in between her ears, which is why, she used it to get recognised. Really.
Right now, there was this rather stars truck kid of a journo who was hanging about her, gushing about the way she looked, the way she dressed… and generally looking like she had a ‘crush’ing hangover. She would deal with it, but at the moment the admiration would come in useful. In print.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Disconnect
The figure walking fast on the road was covered in dust. Red dust. Dust matted its hair, its beard and its rather dirty clothing. The figure was a man. Red dust was on his beard.
On the opposite side, a girl in a green salwar tread quickly and nervously. Her head darted to the left, to catch sight of the dusty figure. Mistrust was in her body language. Mistrust of a figure so unlike what a human being should be. Mistrust because he looked deranged. And of course, fear.
The road was only a thoroughfare, a connect between two well-populated localities. Hardly anyone walked through it. Cars, two-wheelers and autos where the only occasional users.
The dust covered figure rapidly walked on, his hands behind his hips, holding up, pulling up his trousers. A closer look showed that the trousers were perhaps loose, but they were well fitting and would not fall off his hip. Yet, uncomfortably, he held it up, as if afraid that it may slip down his hips, down his thighs, his calves… and trip him in his rapid strides.
The red dusted figure had fine features. A sharp nose, liquid dark eyes – eyes that certainly did not look deranged. But in a garb like that, covered in dark filth and red dust, what else would you think?
The girl in green was forgettable – she was Everywoman. Her imagination narrowed on herself you could see (it WAS in her body language); seeing before her, in a few minutes of an empty stretch of road, an assault perhaps?
The imagination was not at fault certainly, for in these modern times, when we are so developed that we have left the Man behind, these things can happen. They do happen all the time. Type rape, sexual assault on a search engine and you will see what I mean.
They walked on, two sides of Time, the red dusted figure, it’s eyes darting quickly from front to side, catching sight of the girl in green. There is no leap in the eyes, no quick desire to victimise. Lost, its own world… it strides on.
But the girl in green has no such escape from her fear. She strides on as well, the body language crouching and leaping in turns.
The fear will end.
On the opposite side, a girl in a green salwar tread quickly and nervously. Her head darted to the left, to catch sight of the dusty figure. Mistrust was in her body language. Mistrust of a figure so unlike what a human being should be. Mistrust because he looked deranged. And of course, fear.
The road was only a thoroughfare, a connect between two well-populated localities. Hardly anyone walked through it. Cars, two-wheelers and autos where the only occasional users.
The dust covered figure rapidly walked on, his hands behind his hips, holding up, pulling up his trousers. A closer look showed that the trousers were perhaps loose, but they were well fitting and would not fall off his hip. Yet, uncomfortably, he held it up, as if afraid that it may slip down his hips, down his thighs, his calves… and trip him in his rapid strides.
The red dusted figure had fine features. A sharp nose, liquid dark eyes – eyes that certainly did not look deranged. But in a garb like that, covered in dark filth and red dust, what else would you think?
The girl in green was forgettable – she was Everywoman. Her imagination narrowed on herself you could see (it WAS in her body language); seeing before her, in a few minutes of an empty stretch of road, an assault perhaps?
The imagination was not at fault certainly, for in these modern times, when we are so developed that we have left the Man behind, these things can happen. They do happen all the time. Type rape, sexual assault on a search engine and you will see what I mean.
They walked on, two sides of Time, the red dusted figure, it’s eyes darting quickly from front to side, catching sight of the girl in green. There is no leap in the eyes, no quick desire to victimise. Lost, its own world… it strides on.
But the girl in green has no such escape from her fear. She strides on as well, the body language crouching and leaping in turns.
The fear will end.
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