Under Her Careful Scrutiny
I was traveling with Margaux by train. It was like her to prefer the kind of time that train travel implied, as if she were living in a black and white 1940’s movie as a WWII spy.
Margaux was a woman of fashion, meticulously manicured, her strawberry blonde hair shaped perfectly in a long smooth pageboy. Her wide eyes were crowned with high arched penciled brows, her fingernails and lips painted in fire engine red, the lips outlined just beyond the natural line so that they appeared thick and pouty.
She was always attired in tight fitting suits, with skirts that hugged her swelling hips and fitted jackets that accentuated a voluptuous hourglass figure. The necklines plunged deeply so the hint of her breasts appeared beneath the transparent gauze of her blouse.
