I left home in my clinging for life leggings proud of my pert nethers and uplift bra. It had been a good hair and eyebrow day. I looked hot.
I was in the Pharmacy waiting for the box of drugs which keep me alive and well in the manner to which I have now become accustomed when a man joined me at the counter. He was, I would guess, somewhere between the dictionary definition of drunken and vagrant. His life etched on his village by the sea battered face which I recognised from my 'skins of '78' period.
I tried not to make eye contact, mostly because, when you have lived as long as I have, it is difficult to remember who you have slept with,
He clocked me and it was game over as he went directly and without gear shifts into flirt mode complimenting my garb and my lipstick. We made jovial connections and I wondered if he remembered anything I didn't. I blushed and lowered lashes, taking compliments graciously and awkwardly.
Then he said, 'You look like you've had the sort of life I've had'.
Fortunately my box of drugs arrived as I retrieved my broken ego from the floor and left with the stoop of woman who just heard a home truth.`
The Diaries of a Countess © 2019 Pasha du Valentine