a little bit of black with a little bit of pink

She is half of my soul, as the poets say, part 1

When Jennie's interrupted by a stranger in a bookstore, she finds herself swept up in witty conversation over coffee as they debate reading habits, completely enraptured by the beautiful woman who spouts poetry, is brazenly confident and just a little bit cocky.

-----

"Oh, God no, don't pick that one."

Jennie glanced up at the woman standing a few feet away from her, blonde pulled away from her face in a severe bun as she plucked a thin book from the shelf. It didn't seem like she was talking to her, and Jennie continued to pull Milk & Honey from the shelf. Book in hand, she glanced around, before looking back at the woman, who had turned to look at her with hard eyes.

She was beautiful, and Jennie found it alarming, quickly turning back to the shelf in front of her as she tried to mask her embarrassment at being caught staring. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the woman sidle up beside her, standing so close that if they moved even an inch closer, they would've jostled the other's elbow.

Peeking sideways, Jennie watched the stranger run a slender finger along the spines of poetry books, before pausing and making a small sound of triumph, pulling a book from the shelf and turning her body to face Jennie. She held the book out in the small space separating them, looking up at her with a surprising softness to her face. Jennie realised she had been talking to her.

"Honestly, you're much better off with something else," the woman said, "I'd hardly call someone who strings three words together a poet."

Eyebrows rising slightly in surprise, Jennie glanced down at the dark cover of the book and flipped through a few pages, before glancing back up. A shy smile flit across her face and she reached up to brush stray hairs out of her face before adjusting her glasses.

"What would you call them then?"

Tilting her head to the side, the woman smiled, her brow creasing as her eyes narrowed, amusement etched into the lines radiating from the corners of them. They were a beautiful colour and Jennie loved them instantly, biting back the urge to say so.

"Someone with stray thoughts," the woman said, her words measured and tone clipped, letting out a derisive snort of laughter. "If you're after female poets, Nikita Gill is one of the best I've come across."

Waving the book she held up between them, she raised her eyebrows suggestively, and Jennie quickly placed Milk & Honey back on the shelf, before slowly taking the book from the woman. Ordinarily, she wouldn't have taken advice from a stranger on anything, even books, but she was so caught off guard that she was intrigued. Jennie wasn't the sort of person people who a woman that looked like that would approach.

She didn't mean her looks, although Jennie was definitely struck by them, but the fact that her handbag was Celine, her perfume just smelled expensive, and Jennie would know a pair of Louboutin's anywhere. You couldn't work for a fashion magazine without being able to identify quality on sight, and wealth oozed from this woman, from head to toe. Even her accent was posh - vaguely British and speaking of old money.

"I wasn't looking for female poets in specific," Jennie murmured, shoulders rolling in a small shrug as she skimmed through the pages, breathing in the smell of the paper as the pages fanned out.

"Oh, well Rilke then."

Choking on a small laugh, Jennie cocked her head to the side and glanced at the woman with bewilderment. "You're quite demanding for someone I just met."

Lips curling in a slow smile, the woman arched a perfect brow, "I take it very seriously when I see people making horrible poetry choices. I just have to step in and stop them making a mistake."