“I HATE YOU!” she shouts as she approaches the stop, chasing the retreating bus a few yards before admitting defeat and strutting back to the shelter. Cassandra’s golden hair streams down her back, the rain makes her dress cling to her curves and her tall shoes enhance her feminine legs and her models’ walk.
In reality she mutters profanities as the bus vanishes into the distance. She’ll be even later for the party now.Her dress clings to her like the skin clings to an old sausage and her new heels are too high and difficult to walk in with any sort of grace. Or walk in at all. And they are giving her blisters. In fact they are 99% of the reason she missed the bus in the first place, (the other 1% being the not too undesirable, incredibly rugged carpenter fixing her banister). Her (reddish) blonde hair streams down her back - that was at least partly accurate in her idealised fantasy. Ignoring, of course,that it is still bunched up into the ponytail she slept in.
In her dreams.
In actuality, she wouldn't have run after the bus at all if the driver hadn't deliberately swerved into a puddle, sending a plume of water over the shopping cart that held her life's possessions. And her real name isn't Cassandra, though she thinks of herself as such.
"Madge!" She freezes and turns toward the source of the voice. "Madge! Come here! Stop chasing the buses you stupid thing!" She lets out a brief "Yip!" and trots back toward her owner. Isn't her fault that Retrievers have a short attention--
Ooh, interesting turd. Sniff, sniff. Definitely not one of mine.
Opening: Naomi.....Continuation: Anon.