18 December 2014

The Reporter's Notebook

The mere act of materializing the Moleskine Reporter notebook from my tote ensnares the attention of numerous individuals. The inquiries begin the moment I loosen the elastic band and flip open the smooth black cover. The inquirers are interested to know if I am observing and recording their speech or appearance. I inform the questioners that the pen lines on my page are of no relation to them. Assured that they are not under surveillance, the individuals depart my company. During our brief encounter, I scrutinized every detail of their outfit. I am compelled to pen my frustration over cheaply made shoes, graphic tees, and cargo trousers on acid-free paper. 
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M.J.W.

17 December 2014

The Makeup Place

When I encounter a woman applying makeup in the public sphere, an uncomfortable sensation engulfs me. I feel she has invited the strangers on the 6 to her vanity. She smears on foundation while peering into her compact's mirror. I am unimpressed at her ability to apply eyeliner and mascara without inflicting damage to her eye. The swift pace and shameless manner in which she carries on with this charade indicates this is a daily routine. I doubt she ever makes time to execute her beauty activities in a designated area. If unable to make herself up at home, she could have at least utilized one of the countless makeup counters in New York City. There are fourteen Sephora locations in Manhattan alone. MAC equals in number. There is no excuse.
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M.J.W.

15 December 2014

Sabrina Returns From Paris

Sabrina Fairchild sighed as she carried her small poodle up the steps and through the door of the plane. All of her memories from the last two years were in this breath. Her perfected skill at making vichyssoise, walks along the Seine, and dancing with the Baron St. Fontanel had transformed her into the swan that now boarded this transatlantic flight. She considered Paris the essence of everything she wanted to be. The Bois de Boulogne smelled sweetest after the rainfall. She was sweet when eating soufflé. La vie en rose floated on the lukewarm night air. Thanks to the lyrics of Edith Piaf, Sabrina achieved buoyancy in life. The view of la tour Eiffel, the collections of le Musée du Louvre, and walking slowly in le Jardin des Tuileries were pivotal to life by her new definition. She looked upon the world as an ocean in which to float and swim. Sabrina resolved that when she returned to Long Island, she would retain all of the lessons she had obtained from the City of Light. She learned she was just as fabulous when partaking in fine French dining as she was indulging in a book in her accommodation above the garage of the Larabee compound. Sabrina's fundamentals were constant. The world could not shake her. Instead, she would shake it. David stirred in the lap of her gray suiting skirt. As the plane took to the sky, she looked down on the city with a smile. Her lips seemed to mold permanently to that upturned shape. She dreamed of reuniting with her dearest father as she crossed the Atlantic.
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Along the Seine
M.J.W.