The Lady and Smoke
Retroactive: March 2014
There was a woman today, Mediterranean, walking on the Plaza. She was dressed functionally but stylish – dark colors; purple pants, jacket and blouse black, a fur or faux fur draped across her shoulders, she gripped a black leather bag. Her dress was appropriate for the overcast sky and degree of chill in the air. She was smoking a cigar. A decent size, but feminine. Not a Churchill or Hyde Park, but thicker than a cigarillo. The wrapper was dark, and the smoke slipped into the chill. The sun poked through the cloud layer and pierced the smoke. The woman strolled across Broadway, disappearing into the bustle of 47th Street.
There was a woman today, Mediterranean, walking on the Plaza. She was dressed functionally but stylish – dark colors; purple pants, jacket and blouse black, a fur or faux fur draped across her shoulders, she gripped a black leather bag. Her dress was appropriate for the overcast sky and degree of chill in the air. She was smoking a cigar. A decent size, but feminine. Not a Churchill or Hyde Park, but thicker than a cigarillo. The wrapper was dark, and the smoke slipped into the chill. The sun poked through the cloud layer and pierced the smoke. The woman strolled across Broadway, disappearing into the bustle of 47th Street.
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