She wore a forest green cotton dress much like the ones I’ve been swapping my sweatshirts and jeans for at the local markets due to the exhaustive heat wave added to the discomfort of no fan and a window above our bed facing due east where the sun rises. Waking up amalgamating sweat, pulling the covers over our heads for visual relief at the sacrifice of physical discomfort, perspiring even more under the sheets, and dreaming about how it’s all worth it.
Alex’s mom, Nikki, wore no bra, but surprisingly not to my distaste at she wore her form well. She was slouched in the chair, though not from habitual postural ailments I picked up after she stood, but more from what I assume came from the carafe of rose she dragged to my table with her before adjusting her chair back allowing her to sling one arm over and rest her back against the stone wall.
She has an attractive energy, one that says “I’ve seen it all.” She works with an agency dispelling her to live with Dementia patients through England for short stints, but she’s called in for the next two months and is celebrating in her son’s restaurant, much to my lone dining delight.
She has tussled blonde hair pulled into a low bun so thick I presumed her hair would stream out in the most majestic way when unleashed, admiring as a few strands blew astray in the alley’s brief windstorms. She looked at me when she spoke with eyes as blue as La Plage after days without rain, and noticed when I looked away at a neighboring table, unabashedly asking why, as I’ve anticipated a Frenchwoman would.
She tells me about her relations and stacks stories when she loses train of thought, boarding the next and hoping it might arrive at the same destination.
“I’ve know JB since he was ehh…” she guessed at a height with her hand outstretched. “Found him sleeping on a bench when he was a boy and said ‘what the fuck are you doing? You’ll come live with me.'”
“For how long?” I ask quizzically.