Her black porkpie hat had a thin, scarlet ribbon, and, as she walked, the wind kept blowing back her dark sheeny mane, with wisps finding their way into her into her scarlet mouth, which was painted with the care one takes with fine calligraphy. She saw a small café, headed there with a brisk step and, oblivious to the clamor, sat down at a recently vacated table, her lilaceous eyes glinting like a flame haunted by its demise.
"Café, madam," mouthed the waiter amid the encroaching din of the crowd.
"Yes," and she returned instantly to a sallow stare.
She had left a note on her escritoire. It was penned on a scented floral paper (some wildflower print), and she knew that the fragrance, like that of frangipani, would haunt her into the hollow depths of an indeterminable future.