Silver Boots

Although based on actual events and perceptions, I have opted to write this entry in the form of a short story...thanks for indulging my curiosity and literary experiment.

Alone in the resort lounge, we were seated by the fire on this cold, gray afternoon.  I had a glass of champagne and he a beer.  We talked of our plans for a quiet weekend away from Paris; what would we do after his work was completed on Friday?

As we talked, more people filtered into the lounge, greeting each other, excited to be attending the Mercedes Benz exhibit at the resort.  They came in pairs, small groups or alone.  Some were dressed for the occasion and others looked as if they had just come from a day of yard work~odd really.

Then through the crowd, this woman appeared.  I snuffled a snort and kicked him, pointing with my head in her direction.  She was blonde...straight from the bleach bottle blonde and her roots danced like defiant shadows, somber and stubborn under the wild mane of chemically treated hair.  She tossed her head and played with the mess.  I guess she thought the maneuver was coy and and attractive.  To me, through my champagne lens, she loooked the definition of the dumb blonde.  Tripping over the threshhold of the lounge didn't help.  Her thuggish, leather jacketed companion took no noitice of her stumble and she laughed softly at no on in particular, trying to regain her footing and composure.

She wore a white, nylon trench coat, that bubbled at the hem.  It was loosely belted at the hips, revealing a very skimpy, black sweater dress.  I suggested to him that she had better not sneeze or the other people in the room might get to know her better than they wished.  She seemed comfortable and ill-at-ease, all at the same time.  She appeared to be in her late thirties or early forties, hoping to look as if she was in her twenties.  If she was in her twenties, those must have been hard years.

Left alone to her own devices, her companion talking cars with other guests, she swayed and teetered about the room, looking at the eclectic mix of pop art and fine sculpture adorning the room.  Teetering and twisting like a drunken flamingo...she was wearing the most incredible, silver cowboy boots; tin-foil shiny, embossed paisley patterns and the most outrageous stilletto heels.  She was a podiatrist's nightmare and the proverbial accident waiting to happen.

From out of the lobby strode a silver-haired Christopher Plummer type.  Older, handsome and genial, he spied his friend...the blonde's companion...and with a jovial strut joined his friend by the bar.  He kissed his friend as the French do, first one cheek and then the other.  Sensing her presence was required, Silver Boots tiptoed across the carpet toward the men, her backside swaying like a pack mule navigating the paths of the Grand Canyon.  Her coat slipped from one shoulder, revealing that her dress was sleeveless.  As she came into view, the older man gasped when he caught sight of the spectacle.  He kissed her on her cheeks, once, twice, three times, squeezing the bared flesh of her upper arm, as her companion made the introductions.

Trophy or pro?...the question popped into my mind, shocking me ...a most unexpected thought but not really surprising after it had time to sink in.

The older man took her arm and she, with a major head toss, was led by the men through the door to the exhibition hall.

There was something about those outrageous silver boots that perfectly suited the situation.  The garishness, the absurdity, the faux glamour and all the while this woman teetering on the brink the details screamed that this is her life; this is normal.

I sighed and looked into the fire.