The Pleasure of Her Company(short vignette)

[phil]

The elderly station master, satisfied that at least time was still moving, stuffed the gold watch back into his vest pocket, and looking over the top of his glasses saw the sleeping girl on the hard wood bench, her chin resting on a flimsy thin book of some kind she hugged to her chest. He moved closer and turning his head and holding his glasses steady was able to make out the faded typewritten ‘by Sofia Coppola,’ and he looked at the girl’s face and thought she looked like that Louise Brooks from his youth. She opened her eyes at his breathing. He asked, ‘You Louise?’ She blinked, and replied sleepily, ‘A long time ago.’

Only her dark eyes moved to observe. A little girl in a knit blue cap opposite was holding an ice cream cone loosely and crying. Three doves in fighter formation swooped down from the purple clouds in the pastel yellow Indian sky and landed on the bench arm opposite. They bowed out of sync but it pleased her. ‘The pleasure is all mine,’ she laughed. They replied with deeper nods and launched on a new mission. The girl stopped crying, mouth agape, astonished at the woman who could talk to the birds. A gray wire-haired terrier sauntered by and made short order of her lowered ice cream cone in two bites.

She thought of Sir Anthony, her heart full, and listened for the train. She spoke a line written on page 28 twice. It didn’t seem right, out of place. He would know how to interpret the meaning of those words, and make a lucid suggestion etched in granite, just above a whisper, as always. She was thinking how he always spoke softly so she’d lean in closer to him, oh that blue-eyed handsome devil. Sofia was like that too. On the phone the writer only spoke two soft sentences at first meeting, trusting the professional with a well-traveled suitcase labeled permanently in destinations such as Lydia, Charlotte, and Kim, would know her character quick and hit her marks, three arrows bull’s-eye.

The station master wound his watch and pressed it against his left ear to prove he was alive, and not hearing a tick began to weep. The quiet man had arrived for some script-tuning and stood for a moment at the bottom step. He easily spotted the beautiful woman before descending. She rose from the bench and stepped out onto the illuminated platform with a second chorus of white doves at her feet, and with a child only comforted by a mother’s fairy tale to prevent a silent scream in her dreams, the steam from the train signaled the end of the scene like a director yelling Cut. Print.

[eagle-rare]

Well done, Phil.

I've had a thing for vignettes since I was a young man and read about Henry Miller going door to door selling his stories to housewives. I like to imagine the looks on their faces as Miller related his mad tales and thoughts.

It's short but there is a lot going on here with great attention to detail. Yet you left enough open for the reader to take the story where he or she desires.

Enjoyed the read, thank you.

[smutterly]

Beautifully written, Phil 

I looked up Louise 

[J.D. Casten]

Ditto to Eagle-rare, Smutterly, and Ryler’s remarks—your vignette reads quite smoothly, fills the imagination with clear images, and leaves you wanting more even though satisfying in itself. 

[phil]

Thanks, Friends.

Yes, eagle, that's the beauty of writing vignettes.
The reader can interpret and take it any direction they desire.
And, hopefully, the writer can place you sitting right next to her.