‘She’s definitely not 21′, the first thought that came into my mind the moment she pushed the glass door of the restaurant. Her black curly shoulder length hair was in disarray, lipstick stain on her lips and a hint of green eye shadows and an overly applied eyeliner made her eyes bigger. Her dark almond shaped eyes was examining the restaurant with curiosity that belongs to a child. She tilt her head sideways and put her hands on her hips. A dying cigarette on her hands. She’s wearing a black silky tube and a leather jacket (it was a bit hotter that night so I’m not really sure if she’s comfortable with it) and a mini skirt. A knee length boots to go along with her outfit.
She puffed one more time into her cigarette before tossing it into the nearest trash can beside the counter and approached the nearest table to the door, sat down in one of its couch-like chair. She crossed her leg and put her hands in the old brown table in front of her. Strumming her hands in the table to make her look cool (I guess) or maybe, she’s a bit bored of waiting for someone. The waiter in all white approached her but she said something to him and he went back on his way, a bizarre expression plastered in his face and scratching his hair.
I stood up, put on my hat and went to her. As I drew near her, she put her face between her hands revealing the luscious red nails– complementing her fair complexion and her eyes. She pouted for a while and stared into me, as if swallowing me into her whole world, and smiled. The flick in her eyes was instant– there was some kind of potions or whatever magic it was that made her look older, prettier. I almost took a step backward at that instant. She almost laughed at my reaction and fired her deadly question that sealed the event that night: “How much dearie? How much Mr. Donnovan?”.
First try for the Writing Challenge.