She was Eliza Doolittle, of the start of the play, though she believed herself to be the transformed version from the ending. Tactless, course, and unabashed, though quite endearing in the faults she remained oblivious to. I met her while grocery shopping, looking for Dutch cocoa on a low shelf.
“Yu, know,” she started loudly that I was sure she wasn’t talking to me (I was a foot away). “yu should just buy chawlet puddin’, put it ina pie crust, and WaLa, yu got a yummy dessert, eh looks pretty, evryone is happy. Why ya looking so hard at the different cocoas – puddin’ has the best chawclet flava.”
There was no one else in the aisle, so I had to assume she was talking to me, and, well, I was looking for cocoa. I looked up, and smiled weakly at her.
“Thank you,” I mustered. She had a dip in her hair and dark lip-liner surrounded lightly shaded lips holding them at bay; a thank you was the best route. Her days of glory were over and she’d never know it, or of sumptuous double espresso chocolate caramel cupcakes.