Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Bloor Line, just another Monday.

Black woman, late 30s, wearing a black top, buttoned low, with gold rings on almost every finger. A weaved purse sits on her lap, checkered rows of taffy pink, canary yellow, sherbet purple and mint green. I crave taffy.

The Interruption Of Everything, Terry McMillan (Signet)

Page 217:

I have just made history. This marks the first time I've ever spent the night away from home, alone, in almost a quarter of a century. I pray Leon is freaking out.
Ten years later, she imagines they'll meet again. A function. She wants there to be people around when he sees her, the hand of another man resting on the small of her back, guiding her through the room. When he sees her, resting her hand against this new man's chest, her hipbone digging suggestively into his crotch. She wants there to be people around when his face falls and he recognizes the colour, the way it falls over her hips, its shimmer as she walks, when he remembers and on an exhale asks to no one in particular, Why did you have to wear that dress?

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