By LA Wilson
He said an artist’s eye is forensic. He specialised in cityscapes, harsh truths. He told her the nicotine color of her hair echoed vagrants’ fingers. Her speckled shirt evoked bubble-gummed sidewalks. Her…
She stood, lifted a hank of hair and waggled it like a painter’s brush. “Caramel,” she said. “Hairdressers call it caramel.” Her Americano toppled as she reached for her coat, the steaming pool a reminder to ghost him.
He wondered again if his soulmate filtering strategy was really working in his best interests.
She skipped handsome guys whose profiles didn’t say much and re-tinted platinum blonde.
Brilliant, LA Wilson! Thank you.
Thanks Dana I’m Laura, I have to write as LA due to another author more famous than me with my name…
Glad you liked this.
I went back to this story and re-read it. So much more surfaced on a second reading. An artwork in more ways than one. Very good.
Thank you!
Loved your descriptions and the premise.
Thank you!