She was a cherry. Not literally. She didn’t hang around bowls, nor did she have a stone in her belly. I mean that she was sweet, cute and rounded in all the right places.
Lots of makeup on her face so she could have been darkly red underneath it all. But I doubt. More like the colour of her hands I would guess. She could have gone without the slap and still have been as cute as fruity pie.
She’d made her hair the colour of straw, but you could see from her eyebrows, and the bare glimmer of her roots, that it was easily black. Naturally, her birthday suit would have shown this, but not in the middle of the public library. That wouldn’t have been appropriate. Not at all.
It was when she turned away that her shape under those blue, blue jeans gave her away as being as luscious as a cherry (or two) and her top being the colour of cerise should give you the clue you need to guess that from the front – she was just as suggestive of the previous assertion regarding the shape she had assumed on reaching a certain age at which she bloomed like a blossom on a certain tree.
Perfectly proportioned was this cherry girl. Properly made up in the style of a juicy fruit who would shine in any circumstance – either on your arm or in the collection of the finest connoisseur of sweet delights. She was fine and tasty; smart and sweet; bright and shiny – such a treat. She could make the casual observer wax lyrical about her charms, even after a day of tiresome toil or burdensome botherments. She was there and she was good and she was ripe for the picking.
She was five foot two and it makes me wonder how would she choose her mate. Would she think of her children and choose one who stood over six foot so that perhaps they would be half way in-between? Or would she think more of the convenience of not getting a crick in her neck every time she needed to steal a kiss? Steps would be fine for when she wanted to be on a par, but wouldn’t it be better to marry someone who is five foot four? I wonder these kinds of things as I go through life and I wonder why I wonder about them too. Is it any wonder that I’m twice as strange as I am true?