There is a woman who every day at a quarter past twelve leaves her office building and lights up a Virginia Slim. I only know it’s a Virginia Slim because of its distinct narrow and long appearance (it was also my grandmother’s brand of choice).
The woman also looks like her name might be Virginia.
Virginia let’s her cigarette dangle elegantly from her mouth as she enters the sunlight and walks purposefully toward a small pod in the complex. Once she arrives she will pace and intermittently take drags with her two fingers very close to her mouth.
Virginia always wears mid-length skirts with low heels. The pattern and color of her outfits vary; she has no routine palette. She has a slight backward arch to her torso and she moves languidly, yet there’s a strange alertness to her. Her face, masked with sunglasses, rarely looks anywhere but directly in front of her. Sometimes she chats softly on her phone, other times she simply lets her cigarette dangle from her mouth.
Her age is observable by some faint wrinkles on her tanned arms, always exposed under Florida’s persistent heat. Her hair is light blonde (perhaps dyed but never neglected) and freely maintained in that she allows wisps of it to frame her face.
She walks back to her office in a timely manner, and I’m left wondering what her life is truly like outside of this mediocrity.