The Woman in Green

Another modern romance


A woman looks at her reflection in the mirror. She is finishing her makeup. Slowly. Her eyes are beautiful. And her lips, with a slight Cupid’s bow. She puts on her lipstick; it’s a rich, plum colour. She makes sure that it’s perfect. It has to be perfect. With a curious look in her face, she starts writing with her lipstick on the mirror. Each curve of each letter is for him. It reads “Minuit?”.

‘Midnight’ in French.


A photographer climbs out of a taxi. Scott. He thanks the driver and and closes the car door. He’s feeling good, confident. He looks good too. His camera hangs over his shoulder and sways as he walks. As he gets closer to the front door, he becomes a bit nervous. He knows that she is going to be there. He approaches the door and pulls on his shirt, rubs his hands together and takes a breath. He rings the bell. The door opens and he walks in.


There are a lot of dapper looking men and stylish women at the party. Some dressed up, some dressed trendy, some dressed for Vogue. A friend recognises Scott and comes up to greet him. They shake hands, share a laugh, but Scott’s attention is elsewhere. Where is she? He pulls out his camera, figuring he should probably look like he’s working.


He lifts up his camera and looks through the lens to scout the room for a few good shots. He sees a group of men laughing — click. A couple dancing slowly -click.

Then Lea. As beautiful as ever in an emerald green dress. She is singing with the band behind her, swaying along with the jazz sounds from the saxophone. Click. She looks up at him. Click. She puts her hair behind her ear. Click.

He puts the camera down to admire her. Her plum mouth. Her mesmerising eyes. Her long legs through the slit in her dress. The way her hips mov-

He is interrupted by the dancing couple that bump into him unexpectedly and makes him spill his drink all over his shirt. They apologise; he brushes it off politely and makes a move for the bathroom.


Scott walks into the bathroom while looking down at his shirt, assessing the damage. Eh, nothing a trip to the drycleaner won’t fix. As he looks up, he sees her words on the mirror.

He reads it. MINUIT?

He’s seen that handwriting a thousand times. He’s written and he’s been written too. Notes on fridges, bedside tables. Mirrors.

It’s definitely her. But he hasn’t spoken to her in years. He makes a half effort to clean his shirt with water and a towel and then leaves the bathroom.


He walks past a clock on his way through the house. It reads 12 o’ clock.

She isn’t on the stage anymore. It’s just the saxophone blaring. He walks outside in a last attempt to find her.


There are only a few people outside. He can’t see her. And just as he is about to walk back inside, he sees something in his peripheral.


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