Parisian Blue sweeps across blank canvas. Jacqueline takes three steps back. Graceful, her head tilts right, then left. It is noon. She is wearing her housecoat.
Her legs are tanned, feet bare. She wears a watch, fastened tightly to a tiny wrist, an adornment she will ignore. Time holds little meaning. There are breakfast dishes to wash, grill cheese in the frypan. Later, there is dinner to prepare.
I watch as her manicured fingers lift a lit cigarette from a cut glass ashtray. She tips the filter to her lips and closes her eyes. Sunlight from an open window cascades across her face. She has the good looks of a 1950’s screen star: hair as black as night, eyes a dark shade of denim. Lately, she has taken to rolling and tucking the ends, as is the fashion.
“A chignon,” she says.
After one pull on the cigarette, she exhales and stuffs it into the heap.
I notice a trace of lipstick: Venice Red.