A woman sat at a bar, sipping freshly brewed brandy out of a neon green straw. The bar tender, who had been almost permanently brandishing his glasses, could not help but stare at her.
Her outfit was straight out of a movie; she dressed like a child. Her long black hair was done in long twin braids, and she wore the kind of blue dress one would associate with cottage aesthetics.
But her face was that of a woman. That much was obvious. She was wearing makeup too, and there seemed a foundation of maturity on her.
When the bartender asked for her ID, she gladly obliged. It said she was 25. A near perplexing number within the circumstances in which he witnessed it. Her picture, too, was her, wearing the same long black braids and the same old blue dress. As if she was frozen in time.
When he had handed her ID back, the little clock that hung on the wall just above his head range out. It was a vintage clock, he was sure his boss or whoever decorated loved vintage, as most of the bar was composed of antique furniture. Surely a classy place.
The clock was a bird clock, the kind with a different bird presented on its face for each hour, and at every hour, that bird's song would play. At that significant moment of him returning the ID, the sound of a robin chirped.
But, presently, when the woman dressed as a girl finished her whisky and set it on the table, the sound of a dove played.
Her bright red lips curved into a delighted smile, looking towards the bar's door as it opened, the moonlight creeping in.
YOU ARE READING
A Friend of Dorothy
RomanceSappho is your regular bisexual. She's stressed, lonely, and hasn't had a relationship in some time. This is until she receives a strange phonecall from a woman named Dorothy who is willing to help her out.
