JOE AND DIANNE ONESHOTS.

MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT.

DIANNES POV:
"Dianne I have to say, your style is impeccable!" Mel propelled yet another courtesy compliment from endearment my direction, sprouting a roseate blush to creep itself along my neck and powdering it's shading across both my cheeks, conveniently concealed by thin layer of foundation dusting my face. "Thank you Mel!" my appreciation for her perceptive observers for miniature details for my attire's completition, verbally conscious to the necklace chain adorning a gleaming silver pendant clasped around my neck, was exclaimed in this expression of thanks. On our casual saunter to the restaurant beachside shops passed us by, many closed for the day at this late hour, owners either heading home to their families for a well-deserved evening rest or meeting up with friends for a night out on these fine Perth streets, my eyes couldn't help but cascade over each section of my attire - an insecurity habit, evolving over year long periods of despising myself - but for once, the figure looking back wasn't entirely bad. Partioning my body in conjoining sections - one from the neck upwards, two from chest downwards, then three from my hips downwards - was the effortless method of acquiring a glimpse of myself in the transparent panes.

Shop one - a miniature boutique, marketing the women of Perth with their intricately fashioned ballgowns at reasonable pricing, a location securing the distinct memory of purchasing my formal dress with my mother, formerly the paramount event in my lifetime, yet in comparison to the current prediment of our universe, these stresses of life were so minuscule. In actuality, it didn't matter whether the jewels cemented against the dress' bodice were glistening in the lighting, or if the skirt's ruffles shade ideally complemented my hair colour. These worries were so simple, so naive, so worthless. My tangerine tresses, the roots vibrant from recent pigment to conceal any signs of the natural brunette peeking through, were lightly curled to have that beachwave style to them, a subtle tribute to our proximity to the surrounding Aussie beaches. The tingling scarlet markings over my cheekbones from overexposure to the sun's powerful rays, prominent against my sunkissed skin, were obscured by a modest dusting of makeup, beige-toned shadows staining my eyelids with a glossy lip in a transparent colour shade. The simple application process of makeup was a vital aspect of my daily routine, by one stroke by confidence levels were soaring.

Shop two - a native cafe, their exhibited displays parading the assortment of homemade confectionary, the ingredients blending into this flavoursome fusion that melts the instant it touches your tongue, this sugary pleasantry contrasted with the sharpness of the freshed brewed coffee, specially prepared for each customer. Consequently to the bleak conditions engulfing Australia, our atmosphere was inconsistent to the standards of organic heating, involving further deliberation to my dress sense - the crisp frost nipping away at your body parts seizing them into their control, and the sombre overcast skies complicating the receiving of a radiant glow. Utilising the impulsive quarantine purchases, my fingers unknowingly adding several items to my basket whilst my mind was preoccupied with picturing the instant wash of fresh air hitting my skin and the tight embrace my parents arms will hold me into, my torso was clothed in a loose fitting blouse, black buttons adjoining the opposite sides, a plan ivory shade with the simple additions of of black polka-dots scattered throughout. One of my wrists was flaunting a silver bracelet, my mother's present on my arrival, and several of my fingers were adoring the usual rings, each with separate meanings.

The winter season implied for the implementing of specific clothing, exchanging the mini skirts and dresses for the thicker leggings and fluffy socks. My lower-limbs were sheltered by a commodious set of trousers, it's loose sway licensing entry of that refreshing sea breeze, all held together by a belt tied around my waist. My trainers were tossed onto the shoerack for enticing set of black boots, my foot enveloped by a zip and golden buckle, the heel's clicking sound against the strike of the concrete a previous annoyance, yet on this walk it only intensified my confidence that provided this feeling of empowerment and strength. Shop three - a candle emporium, ceasing future purchases from the public but observant peepers could detect through the transparent windows, a candle illuminated this square building and it's blazing flames radiating wave patterns across the walls. Embedding himself in a plump office chair, a microwaved meal and a glass of water to assist digestion rested upon the makeshift table, an elderly man was jouncing his head along to a classical melody that was similar to the typical music recognisable to Strictly's aura that arises the senior citizens in the audience to their feet to perform an unsynchronised frolic. Scanning the insides of the shop, a display piece in the window fascinated my eyes directly to it - personalised beige candles, christened underneath the name of 'Dolly's Final Tune', varying in their shapes presented in an arrangement that centralised a framed photograph of an elderly woman, supposedly the mysterious man's departed wife. Watching his solitary munch, harking to the traditional harmony that instantly reverts him to a pleasant period of his life whenever his beautiful wife was alive, inspired her generosity to other human beings and the happiness she introduced to our universe by just living, her pure hobby the influence for this candle creation evoked separate emotions on either ends of the spectrum within me. There was that little scrapping of sadness, for the final years of his life this woman he adored with his entire heart was absent for the little moments; but there was a small sentiment of happiness, for her legacy was living on through himself and the people she encountered, yet another reminder of her wisdom upon eligible minds.