Sitting by the window, a steaming mug clutched between her mitten-covered hands, she looks out the window and contemplates the snowflakes falling gently from the sky. A large pair of round glasses decorates her face, sunk into a gigantic ecru shawl, so that only the tip of her nose sticks out. Seated at the other end of the room, I let my hands strum on my keyboard while marveling at this girl's hair, a flamboyant brown. Beside her, my pristine skin and white hair are pale and even my meticulously dusted orange eyelids fail to catch up with the catastrophe of my snowy appearance. As I notice with dismay the poor spelling of my note-taking, typed with so little concentration, I erase my work and look up again at her.
That's when I meet his gaze.
She looks as surprised as I do and turns away her beautiful face, resolutely hidden behind her hair and felted shawl. I even catch her pulling quickly on her sleeves to hide her hands. But I had the time to see, on them as on her face, the strange spots tinting her skin like a gigantic depigmented planisphere. In view of her attire and her vain attempt at concealment, I suppose that the young girl cannot stand the looks and with difficulty assumes her epidermal condition. But despite her embarrassment, I can't help but gaze at her. And for a moment, I dare to think that I am the only one who can afford it.
After long seconds, I realize that she still doesn't dare turn away from the window. Maybe his eyes are even watching my reflection so that they know the very moment I look down. No offense, I decide to grab my things and go and sit across from her. The red rose to her cheeks and after a silence, she finally deigned to turn her head towards me. She contemplates my face and my pale hair, as well as my tinted eyes, her gaze gradually changing from resentment to surprise, then to embarrassment. Her grin reveals a dimple on her two-tone cheek, where the pattern meets no rule except that of covering her face with islands and continents with the least respect for symmetry. His left eyelid is vanilla, the right chocolate. The rest are just patchwork.
No one has ever had to allow themselves the right to fix it that way, at least without feeling phenomenal discomfort. Myself, I don’t think I have ever put up with such a fixation on the part of a stranger so calmly. We both know the power of a curious, scrutinizing gaze. We both know what it takes in our hearts and minds to prying eyes examining our skin. Strangely, I never felt so well understood as by this girl.
– My name is Vilma.
– Me, Justine.
Coffee Cream
