I report to you from the Starbucks near the city. The sun is a glowing yellow softly hitting my cheekbones. It is the first day of the month where the cold breeze of air and a warm sun form a perfect mix. I’m sipping my chocolate Frappuccino through the green straw, tickled from the icy blend melting down its way to my stomach, when four women that strangely all look alike heel-toe in. All with thick black sunglasses covering the top halves of their faces. They sit down the same way, one after the other, hair as straight as an arrow, away from their faces. They look like they just came back from an expensive hair salon, where the hairdresser isn’t even called a hairdresser but a Designer, with a capital Dollar sign and a piercing on his right earlobe. They all order Frappuccinos, espressos and all sorts of café fusions listed on the menu. The sun is literally slapping glow on their hair, it’s beautiful to watch really, hopefully not too creepy but observe close enough for them to notice, like it, and show off. Each hand a bright skin color basking under the almighty sun that has decided to slap us all today, softly. Five perfectly French-manicured carrée shaped fingernails, a slim silver watch around the wrist, on top of a diamond-up bracelet, topped with that big ring they call the ring finger for. One, two, three brown typique Louis Vuitton bags that can fit an entire road with people and cars inside, and I do wonder what its inner leather looks like, what stories it would tell and how many secrets it holds captive in such a big shoulder well. The other woman wears Louis Vuitton around her waist, and how pleased that man would’ve been if he knew his little artifact would be tucking her petite waist in tightly. LV should be gleeful.

More women come in, they all know the four originals, only duplicated as they become seven then nine. Some conversations about how difficult it is to handle three children and where one of them got her new perfume from, they all compliment each other at the right times, and keep to themselves at correct moments. A cute French accent comes out of the slightly pumped lips from plastic surgery of one of them, hair long straight and blond falling down to her chest, vaguely curling up at its end. She’s wearing a white Marilyn Monroe shirt printed in pink, blue denim jeans, a bold lemon-green necklace and a pair of pink moccasins, she just screams spring. The entire café does, the entire day does. I walk back home in desperate need of a five hour long shopping spree.




2 thoughts on “CASUAL CLASS”

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