Mar 19, 2002
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They are looking, and she knows it.
They are looking, they can’t help looking, she knows it and she loves it.
She’s wearing a short skirt, the sort which wraps around the curves of the bottom rather than hanging off them, in a printed cream and floral fabric. It reminds me of guesthouse curtains. She has heavy eyelids, blinking slowly under lashings of black mascara, and her neat feet are encased in cream high-heeled ankle boots, tied at the back with a leather bow, which flops to the left and then to the right when she walks.
Her blonde hair is fixed in a low ponytail, and she wears a black hat, which is strange, because people with hats usually have something to hide. Her pale jacket swings open at the front, and she adjusts her handbag strap to lie between her pert and perky breasts, wrapped in a tight blue jumper.
They are looking, she can feel it, and she loves it.
As she walks, she bounces slightly, softly, more than seems natural, swinging hips from side to side, but the effect is what she wants; people turn to look as she presses the button on the pelican crossing, saunters across the street, shifts her copy of Metro to the other hand, smiles a half smile.
Men whistle low in her wake. She feels their appreciative glances from passing cars and buses, alters her gait minutely to tackle the kerb, ensure her skirt rides up her thighs an extra half inch.
They are staring at her, and they can’t help it.
I’m staring at her too, but only because her legs, fake-tanned and oiled and wedged between skirt and boots look like pale sausages after nine minutes in a hot oven; strangely incongruous and unappetising in the grey morning.
