Café Blanca

She had hair white as smoke and just as billowy. It was shaved on the sides, an aesthetic held over from her punk days. Given her age, she likely originated the trend. Dressed all in black, her lines were sleeker than they had any business being on a Saturday morning. Small but thick gold hoops hung from her ears. Her skin was taught, but cracks splintered from the eyes. Her cheeks, tinged pale pink, formed a notable crease on either side of the nose. Her lips weren't plump, they weren't thin; they held the remnants of a sadness that had tugged on their corners. Her eyebrows were black and sharply drawn, like a patient Vulcan. Her lashes were just as jet; reaching towards the light, they were a Dionaea muscipula enveloping her eyeballs like a common housefly.

She held her coffee amidst the clamor of the café. She sipped and sipped and sipped, looking ahead, not out a window or into a crowd of faces. Her eyes settled somewhere beyond the wall of time.

She got up and made her way across the room. She leaned across a table in the corner, occupied by a quartet of gruffer faces. Her clutch stayed behind, open, its innards of paper and plastic exposed. Next to it laid a single key anchored by the fob of an Aston Martin. Her coffee cooled. Unattended. Alone. No one paid them any mind.

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80s Revolution