Her hair, long and black, black as that of a raven's feathers is always let down with hair on one side, pulled back and held up with a hairclip. That is her signature style, it never changes, only the hairclip. Sometimes it is encrusted with crystals, which twinkles under the soft glow of the dimmed lights, or it is polished plastic that gleams whenever she turns. And its there she sits, at her usual spot by the bar, sipping her drink daintily till he arrives.
He comes too, daily, tall, big and stout walking in with the air of someone with vast experience and great knowledge. And everyday, they meet, their tete a tete, the usual rendezvous. Immersed in a world of their own, their conversation spans on for hours at end, only to be interrupted by abrupt orders for fresh drinks. And everyday like clockwork, they will leave at the same time. Same time but never together. It’s always him, then her, like an unspoken rule shared only by the two of them.
After he leaves, she sits there, just a little while longer, finishes the last bit of her drink, picks up her purse and heads out the door. And as she sets off down the road, back to reality with the setting sunrays bouncing off playfully her long black tresses, she too leaves that daily secret chapter, only to return to it the following day.