The Van Cleefian

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She looks beautiful. Not like marshians. Or elephants.

In fact, she looks pure. And beautiful. It’s that 20th century lady with the
long lace dress. The curved neck. The spotless brow. The pomegranate
lips curled up, between a rose. She’s the one strutting around with the
silk umbrella, Japanese-like, soft with a touch of cyan.

The lavender clouds curl up like her lips, against a Seneca sky, with
buttoned star sapphires facing east. Her head in a bonnet bobs to the
battering winds, not for a second ruining her perfect composure. Or
the mascara, finely purple tonight. She hails the cab. All stop in sight.

She’s like Vasilia. A Van Cleef. Bashful. But beautifully pure.
More pure than her prim flower perfume, or those purple begonias.
She’s more elegant than a peach blossom. But she sits in the cab and
watches the world whirl by. “If only I wasn’t a Van Cleefian,” she goes—

Wishing that marshians and elephants didn’t live in her heart.





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