“The roaring twenties,” she chimes to no one as her words hover like magnolia soap bubbles. Her dark bob is like patent leather, her eyelashes, Iver Johnson handlebars, and her face, with its silver-lining cheekbones, soft-focus foundation and locomotive-kohl window sills, is as full as a marble moon. Her porcelain legs are kicked over the …
Speak Easy to the New Decade
Caity Scott Writing 