Ruby
I’d been seeing her in my neighborhood Pub for several weeks and wondered what the hell she was doing there, looking completely out of place. But as a writer, I’ve always been fascinated by unusual looking characters, especially when I could integrate them into a book. And this dame — and she was quite a dame — was certainly one of those.
We finally met one afternoon as I was getting my thoughts together for my next novel while drinking a beer. It was on that day, for reasons unexplained, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She looked as if she were from another era. Not sure which one. Just not this one.
She was perched at the bar drinking whiskey, the bottle in front of her on a pile of bills. It was an ugly, steamy, August day in New York City, yet she was dressed to the ‘nines’ in a bright flowery chemise that fell to her ankles, meeting a pair of scuffed, red high heeled sandals out of which poked bright red toe nails. She had on an enormous straw hat with lots of frazzled flowers atop. Her hands were covered with fuschia satin gloves that hadn’t bothered to match her shoes. It was clear she was no spring chicken by the exposed flesh on her upper arms. A woman in her seventies, I guessed. Yet something about her was magnetic. At least to me, a lover of complex characters I weave into my stories. I decided to leave my usual corner table and move to the empty bar stool next to her
