A dim glint of recognition. The same tilt to the head, hair flicked away from one ear. She’s not as exotically dressed as I remember, but her hair’s still jet black and her eyes are still ringed with kohl.
About six feet apart we both pause, marginally. Enough for a mumbled ‘hi’. The truth is I feel fragile and frumpy — not up to five years of catching up. Wishful thinking, but I sense the same from her.
She tended to wear really strong perfume, possibly patchouli. She often wore a crotcheted top and had a particular quirk of sitting at people’s feet at their desks instead of taking a chair. The particular challenge was to not spend the entire conversation looking down her cleavage. I liked her. She was, as the saying goes, feisty. And not just in the ‘taking boxing lessons’ way. Although there was that as well.
I liked her. I miss ‘proper’ goths.
