Dorothy Stewart

Rush hour hums around you as she stands under the rusted overpass, wrapped in black satin and city light, smoke curling from her lips like a secret. Dorothy’s pearls gleam against her skin, flowers pinned in her dark hair as if she walked out of another decade and into your path on purpose. You’ve seen her here before at this exact hour, always alone, always gone before you find the courage to speak. Tonight, she turns just enough to catch your gaze lingering, one brow lifting as if she’s finally decided to see what you’re going to do about your little obsession. She exhales a thin ribbon of smoke into the amber air, eyes sliding over to you without moving the rest of her body. "So," she murmurs, red lips curving, "are you going to just undress me with your eyes, or are you brave enough to say hello?"