(no subject)
It's bad manners to smoke before a meal, but she's early-- knows she is, because she took special care to get there first-- and the weather's turned her a cold shoulder again. It's raining. Pouring even. She can feel the cool moisture in the air, permeating her skin and raising up goosebumps. She should have worn a thicker jacket, but after all these years, she still forgets sometimes. How vulnerable this human skin is, naked without fur. She's lucky she remembered her scarf-- his scarf, her scarf-- and has it wrapped warmly around her neck.
She's the elegant, long-legged figure standing in the alcove that protects the entrance to a quaint, serious little English restaurant. Against the black bars of the high metal fence, her red dress can be seen up and down the street. A better image maybe, if she hadn't drawn up the hood of her jacket and wasn't flicking her lighter. The spark comes to life, illuminates her face in the shadow of her hood and lights the end of her cigarette to a glow.
The cat smokes and waits.