She walks with a gait slightly off balance, a hint of smile on her lips, eyes unfocused. She’s strikingly tall and thin, way too thin. Her limp bleached hair, more sandy white than blonde, gives her an aura of infirmity. She wears cream lace gowns, flowing down to her ankles, occasionally grazing the floor. Layers of white pearls dangle from her neck, her upper body slouched forward, as though burdened by the weight of those lavish pearls. Clasping tightly at a near non-existent waist is a corset, black and taut, firmly fastened atop her lace gown, highlighting the absence of curves. Hers, is a look that once belonged in an era long gone; an 18th century relic.
She doesn’t greet, never greets, eyes darting from left to right beneath fake long eyelashes, eyelids caked in black mascara. She walks slowly, staggering on black high heels, never quite sure where she’s headed. She sways with the wind, head bowed low like a weeping willow tree, her reedy frame unable to withstand nature’s harsh blows. Dizzy World, her artistic gallery, lodged in an obscure corner of town, remains eerily quiet, even on busy weekends when town is packed with tourists. Like shifting shadows she shuffles on, pallid, fragile and ghost-like; her entire being shrouded in mysteries too arduous for a heart, still so young, to contain.