The Painted lady

She always looks regal – pristine, a woman of high rank.

Her modesty shows by her high-necked dress, fitted to slim body and pale façade.

Gloved fingers pick the pearls around her collar, whether it be lazily or delicately; I’ve never truly known.

She could be sour, the token from a now scorned lover.

She could be contemplative and sad, hiding her doe eyes behind the flap of her large, bowed hat. But she’s always been serene, flowered in purples, pinks, and periwinkles; perhaps at an afternoon of tea and spiced cookies and sweet, sweet company.

Chatter bounces around her in a timeless, muted cacophony but she pays no heed. Her eyes are withdrawn and dazed, her fingers smoothing over opaque stones, her demeanor radiating calm; a lady through and through.