A woman walks into a restaurant. Imagine this scene and capture every detail you can in a few paragraphs. Describe the woman: is she old, young, or in-between? What type of restaurant is it: fancy, casual, or a diner? What is she doing? Pack as much detail as you can into a few paragraphs that will help us imagine this woman clearly.
She approaches the restaurant tentatively, her gloved hand lingering on the door handle. If I could read minds, I might say that she is still debating whether she should enter or not. She is alone, and how many people like to dine alone? A few seconds have passed, and now she’s opening the door. Entering. The heels of her long leather boots click-clicking against the marble floor. Confidently, I might add. She’s the deep red-brown of a kidney bean, and the natural top-knot that she wears is lightly threaded with silver strands. The silver in her hair might lead you to conclude she’s “of a certain age,” but she’s not. The unlined, unwrinkled skin, barely touched by gravity or living, might lead you to conclude she’s young. She’s not. Small filigree silver hoops hang from her, Sandra’s, ears and catch the lights from the faux-crystal chandeliers as she slides into the booth of a diner whose décor – brocade fabric on the seats, blue-gray marble tops and counters imported from Italy, and even the tuxedos of the staff — pretends to be more than it is, but whose menu tells its truth: typical coffee shop fare. Continue reading