How does the world see you??

You're joking, right? This guy looks like he's thirteen years old, and I'm supposed to be going to him for help? Maybe I should come back when he hits puberty.

At least, he looks smart. But he definitely needs a nice girl to help him with his grooming. Sideburns - too long. Shoes - falling apart. And has he ever heard of this new invention called a "comb." Nurse, get him a makeover, stat.

Too bad, he might even look half decent... if you're into exotic looks. Oh no, he's smiling at me. Quick, smile back.

(holy crap DN, this exercise is tough. Too much temptation to start ragging on myself. Remind me never to do this again

Well, I'll bite and present me, as I think someone else would see me. (Not my Hubby, though. He is far to subjective)

As I stand behind the bar, I hear the same old words, spoken by the same old regulars, floating around me. The door opens and a couple comes in. Goodness! She must be quite old, but she's dyed her hair that color? Well, I guess there must be room for every type in this world.
I serve the old fart at the corner his usual third pitcher and notice that the couple sits down one chair away from everybody else. That's strange. Everyone greeted them like they were long lost friends. The woman looks odd. Her hair is too striking, her teeth are not very good, though the smile seems sincere enough. She's a bit round, but I wouldn't call her obese. She's too tall for that.
Gosh, I wonder what Bob is flagging me for. Just gave him his Bud Light. The old geezer could just as well drink regular Bud. He's old enough that he shouldn't have to care anymore. 83 if he's a day, they tell me. What am I doing, working here anyway? I'm only 23. Is it true what my Granny says, that I don't have a life?
The woman with the funny hair calls me over.
OK, one Michelob draught coming up and a soda for the Hubby. Funny. Would have thought it the other way around. Well, at least she's a good tipper.

Slow today. Nothing to do. Same old farts, same boring words floating around me again. What? Oh, the strange woman is waving. Now what? Where did her Hubby go? Oh, he's up there by the slotmachines. She's got a funny accent. Wonder where she's coming from. Some kind of foreigner, that's for sure.
What was that she said? Did she really want to know my name? Wow, I've been working here a fortnight already and nobody's asked that before. Where am a born? Nebraska. How old? 23. Yes, I started college, but dropped out. Why? Well, you know, broken heart, no money, that kind of thing. Who? My parents? No, they couldn't pay for college. They would have wanted to, but Dad is a blue collar, you know.
Gosh, what does Bob want now? Oh, a napkin. Here, take it. I'm busy talking about myself here, can't you tell?
Before I know it I've told her my life's story. She leaves after two beers. Can't remember what her husband looks like. I remember his eyes, though. Kind eyes. I hope she comes again. Wonder what her name is...

The door opens and a gust of fog enters from the alley. When it clears, there she is in all her glory. Redheaded and from the look on her face, with an attitude to match. She pauses in the doorway long enough to glance around and inhale the room's ambience. Finally, she steps forward, her firm, round breasts jiggling ever so slightly beneath her tight, purple cashmere sweater. Her firm, round butt jiggles ever so slightly in black leather skirt just long enough to keep her on the right side of the the guys in the vice squad. The tops of black silk stockings poke out from beneath the skirt as she walks, the seams running all the way down into the back of her black patent leather stilettos.

She ambles slowly across the room with one destination in mind. Reaching the bar, she wedges herself between two cigar smoking Romeos whispering sweetly, "Is this seat taken?" The musky fragrance of Chanel No 5 almost knocks them off their barstools. They part faster than the Red Sea to make just enough room for her curvy body to fill. She fills the space like down fills a pillow.

The bartender approaches her quickly, wiping a highball glass with his bar towel and the drool on his chin with the back of his sleeve. She smiles sweetly and purrs, "Double Shirley Temple, three cherries, please."

Her deep green eyes fringed with eyelashes coated in enough mascara to raise Maybellene stock by a full percent focus on him as he begins his task. He pours an extra jigger of grenadine into the glass and tops it off with a healthy spritz of seltzer and three large cherries as he eyes her lasciviously. He holds up a paper parasol and gestures toward her. She smiles and nods, indicating with her long, blood red nails that she would like two. He breaks three of them trying to get them to open, but finally manages to dunk two brightly colored parasols into her tall, frosty drink. She smiles with pleasure, her deep scarlet lips parting to reveal teeth the color of the finest South Sea pearls. The kind of pearls brown skinned South Sea boys would be willing to risk their lives for.

Taking a sip from her drink, she eases back on the barstool and boldly plucks the cigar from the hand of the man beside her. She recognizes its heady aroma instantly. Cuban Cohiba, Virgin Seed. The real deal. She takes a long, deep draw and fills the air with perfect smoke rings. She reaches her long, slender fingers into the icy glass and fishes out a cherry. Placing it between her lips, it is impossible to tell where the cherry ends and her ruby lips begin. She closes her mouth, tugging on the stem. Tossing her long red hair back and closing her eyes, she savors the sweetness of the maraschino almost orgasmically.

Crossing her legs in a way that would make Sharon Stone blush, she smiles at the gentleman and returns his cigar to him. Its wet, dark end is now ringed with her crimson lipstick, but he doesnt seem to mind. He returns it to his own mouth and sucks eagerly. She pops the stem of the cherry into her mouth, and in only a second or two, sticks out her tongue to reveal the stem is now tied in a perfect double knot. She takes it carefully and places it on the cocktail napkin of the cigar smoking gentleman. "A small token of my esteem," she says in her deepest, huskiest velvet voice. She downs her drink, stands, adjusts the hem of her skirt and glances across the room at the door.

She disappears the same way she came in, with a puff of fog. Some who were there that night would swear they saw a flash of lightning and heard a burst of thunder as she vanished into the dark and foreboding night. The cigar smoking gentleman glances down at the cherry stem, and for the first time he realizes ... he just got stuck with her check.

She's not bad -- she's just drawn that way.

No one would ever notice her, except for that way she walks. She walks like she's a supermodel-- she's not a supermodel. She's average height, maybe a little taller, maybe a little shorter, with dishwater brown hair and olive skin. Her eyes look too pale for her coloring-- blue would be a nice way to describe them, but they're not really blue. They're a funny white-gray color, with streaks of yellow in them.

She dresses boring-- cargo pants, T-shirt, no jewelry. I would guess that she's a tomboy, except for that ridiculous way she walks. Hips swinging back and forth-- why, she doesn't even have hips!-- a casual look of superiority on her face. She thinks she's hot, is my first opinion of her. But then, No, if she thought she were hot, she'd dress better. Maybe she just likes walking that way. Pretending she's on the runway.

The girl turns and walks across the street. Now she is smiling at everyone as though they are her best friend, and practically skipping. The supermodel look is gone. So is the supermodel pout. She looks like a little kid at Christmas.

But as I follow her into a coffee shop, I see a new walk. The sad, depressed walk. Shoulders slumped, head down, shuffling feet. Is this the same girl who, a minute ago, seemed to think she was Kate Moss?

Then something strikes me: She's acting. She's practicing different looks. As I exit the coffee shop, I can't help wondering, What does her real walk look like?

NOTE: When I walk downtown, I actually do this. Every block has a new walk and a new attitude. I've received some pretty weird looks from time to time!

He's quite a stud, isn't he?

THE END

The first thing you would notice about her are her eyes. They were the turquoise you would only find at the Carribean ocean. They glowed from beneath fringed lashes and although at first you would catagorize her as an innocent little girl, when you saw her eyes, you saw her endless soul of hope and grief. She was a little girl no more.

------

man, that was hard. maybe i'll finish it up after dinner, but right now, it's good enough.
;D danya.

She's kind of flaky sometimes, but okay.
She's too nice for a supply teacher.
She's the worst yo yo dieter I've ever met.
She's gotta start paying attention more
She's got kind of curly hair
I think she cares more deeply for animals than she does for most people.
She's a goood mother
She's kind of shy

"I didn't see you there! Sorry, have you been waiting long? You're not from around here, are you? Sure, go ahead and look over the menu and I'll be back to take your order shortly.


Hey, Donna! Did you see that old bag sitting over there? What nerve she must have to come here alone! She's not dressed up, either. Look at her casual clothes and hairstyle. She looks uncomfortable. Crap! What a waste of one of my tables! You've never seen her before either, right? I guess she's just some antique hunter passing through.

So, are you ready to order? Vegetarian dishes? Sorry, we don't get much call for those. Why don't you eat meat? I've never heard of such a thing. Sweet iced tea? NO? Unsweet iced tea? Hey, you're not from around here, are you? You have lived in the state for almost 7 years? Unbelievable! You eat in here everyday? Amazing! I have never seen you before! Be right back with this ma'm.


What's she reading, anyway? Why would anyone go out to lunch by themselves and just sit there and read? How many times will she adjust her glasses anyway? What's wrong with her? She looks sort of like a depressed, slightly younger Meryl Streep, don't you think Donna?


(30 minutes later.)


Wow! I can't believe she left me such a big tip! And she paid for that old woman's food, too! There's nice about her, something you never see anymore. Still - you can tell she's lonely. I hope she comes back in sometime and sits in my section again."