The Mystery Lady

An essay I wrote for my Advanced Composition class. Enjoy.

The woman behind me is trailing me. Or following me. I’m not really sure of the difference. Right now, I think that she is a covert CIA agent out on a Silent Super Secret Assignment that basically consists of following me around the mall. It’s really freaking me out. I devise a cunning plan and decide to turn left instead of right, and sure enough, she is right on my tail again. The mall is never too crowded at 6:30 on Wednesday’s so all I hear is the clack-clack-clack of her crimson stiletto shoes. Or maybe it was clickety-clack-clickety-clack. I could tell that she was not accustomed to walking in heels. Every fifth step or so she would do this little slip thing. Or slide. Whatever. I couldn’t tell.
Now, all I can see is her shadow. It is towering over me, looking as if any moment it will eat me alive. By the look of her shadow, she was tall. Definitely taller than me. I am going to guess either 8’6” or 5’9”. I am going for the later. However, take away the five inch stilettos and she is probably closer to my height. She likes to accentuate her body and make herself appear taller by wearing uncomfortable shoes. I like to remain short by wearing my high-top Converse no matter the occasion. We are not alike, this strange woman and me.
Finally, I can make out what she is wearing. It looks to be either an expensive famous designer dress, or a plain cheap dress from Target. I shop at Target. Nothing wrong there. I am not one who cares much about fashion, so I am going to pretend that she paid a pretty penny for her dress. The dress matches her hooker heels, which causes a clash of color. I don’t understand, yet I am not one to speak since I am aesthetically challenged. I can’t match for anything. The dress she is wearing is much too small for her. She is probably a size six, but is squeezing uncomfortably into a size two. The dress is pretty slutty. Not hooker or trailer trash slutty, but just plain slutty. I think that she is trying to pull off the sultry look, but instead comes off as bloated and clumsy.
The dress barely covers her large chest, and bares all of her back. At least I think so. I can’t see her back, and it would be awkward for me to go and run up behind her and stare at her maybe bare back. The straps of the dress are thin and looks to be digging into her shoulders. The dress is really very pretty, but girlfriend needs to get a bigger size. Maybe she has just gained a lot of weight. She should at least have a necklace on so that my eyes will focus on something besides her massive cleavage. The entire ensemble is not a pretty sight. The incessant clickety-clack is becoming very annoying. I stand there and hope that she finally slips and the much too small dress comes flying over and reveals her unmentionables. While pointing and laughing at her I would fall too, because I can trip over my own shadow. God did not bless me to be graceful, that is for sure. I shake my head at the horrid sight. Still, I wish it would happen. She would be embarrassed and it would just be a normal day for me. Anyways, the annoying sound does not stop.
I can’t figure this woman out. Her dress is red, crimson rather. Her shoes, as previously stated, are also crimson. It would have made sense to combine the previous sentences, but I am going to leave it like it is. Not only is her dress and shoe combo red, her hair is also red. Her hair, however, does not match the beauty of the other reds on her body. Her hair is an ugly red. The kind that you can’t help but stare at, and while staring make a disgusted face. Words will not do justice to the horrendous image sitting atop her head, but I will try and do my best. Imagine you have a carrot, or two, a tomato, and a spoonful of mustard. Put all the items into a blender and hit the “pulsate” button. My blender has that setting. If yours doesn’t, get a new blender. After pulsating for a few seconds, open the lid and the color inside matches Secret Ladies hair. Nasty.
The hair cut is nice. Sort of punk-rockerish with long bangs that covers up most of her face. If she cut the ugly, side-swept bangs I might like the cut. I think that this woman is just trying to look cool, when in actuality is not. See, again we differ. I have never, nor will I ever be cool. I don’t even try. I have come to accept that fact, and I live with it. She on the other hand, is probably in her late 30’s and is dressing like a hormone driven teenager. That is so not cool.
Her cheaply manicured fingernails are also red. The lipstick is of the same color, without much of a surprise. I know I lack a complete sense of fashion, but I believe that the poor, not cool woman has committed the cardinal sin of fashion suicide. First of all she is extremely pail. So pail that she probably glows in the dark. The red clashes against her body and creates an image that I would soon like to forget. She needs to get some more color behind her. Or rather, on her. I am going to say that she is color blind, and stick up for her. She looks like she needs a friend. Maybe that is why she is following me. Or trailing me. Whatever.
I am going to go out on a limb and say that her eyes are blue. Stereotypical blue, to say the least. I’m going to go with cerulean blue, because I like the word cerulean. There she goes again, slipping. Or sliding. I wonder who she is trying to impress. Her left ring finger is empty, so she could be single. But, I always jump to conclusions, and it is much more fun to create outlandish backstories about strangers. Maybe she is a widow and her husband got eaten by a manatee not so long ago. Maybe she does need a friend!
I am almost at Chick-Fil-A to get my dinner when the clickity-clack slows down. She stands in line behind me, and all of a sudden has a purse. I’m not sure how I missed the purse the entire time she was following me. I am definitely not cut out for detective work.
All of sudden, her purse makes this weird whirring sound and she digs frantically inside, as if there was a bomb about to explode and she has to defuse it with one second left. It’s not a bomb, though, but a cell phone. Of course it is. I think I watch too much T.V. I think that everybody has a Jack Bauer like complex and wants to save the world. Maybe she is the cheerleader and it is my job to save her. I laugh at the thought. I’m a complete idiot. She is talking on the phone, so does this mean she does have a friend? Her voice is magical and flowing, and I want to take back all the bad things that I dreamed about her. She should be on radio, but not T.V. Much too soon. I begin eavesdropping on her phone call, but I am interrupted by the girl who wants to take my order. I order the number one, extra pickles with a lemonade. Right then I knew I should have ordered the number five, but it is too late. I don’t really care. I grab my food like I have not eaten in days, make a mad dash to the napkins and ketchup and grab more than I need. Mystery Lady is still on the phone and looks genuinely happy. It looks like she will be dining alone as she makes her way to a nearby table. Before she hangs up she says “I love you” to the microphone part of the phone. She gets a glow in her eyes, and I knew that she just hung up from her significant other, whoever he may be.
I begin to walk back to work and I become sad that she will not follow me. I make my way down the almost empty hall and wish for the clickity-clack of the heels. Oh well, I need to find somebody else to make up stories about. He looks like fun.