blonde cutie
Her apartment was (how can one put it tactfully?) a mess. An eclectic
mixture of reprocessed Victoriana, Japanese boutique, and neo-Haight-Ashbury.
“Hey Tweezer!” she yelled out to a battered birdcage, large enough to
comfortably house an albatross. In it chirped a finch of some nondescript sort,
while the cage bottom was covered with sheets of newspaper printed in Cyrillic.
“Make yourself comfortable while I heat up the chocolate” Norma directed as
she disappeared into the kitchen. There wasn’t much room to sit down anywhere
except on a large threadbare sofa, which I doubt had ever seen better days.
Piled haphazardly on the chairs were books of all sorts, with titles like: “The
Works of Virgil Finlay,” “The Kalmyk Mongols,” “Les Fleurs du Mal,” “Sundials,”
“Memoirs of a Tattoist,” etc. In all, a most diverse assortment of interests.
When Norma returned from the kitchen, I noticed that she had changed her
clothes. She was again wearing her accustomed jeans and a black tank-top. I had
never before seen her bare arms. I was mildly shocked to note that her
underarms were unshaven; adorned with sparse wisps of silky auburn down. She
was also barefoot. Her feet were tiny and well-formed, without any of the usual
calluses heels inflict on a woman. She looked adorable; women are so sylph-like
when barefoot.