There she is, walking in the inky darkness, D.C.'s lights behind her. She wears a tan trench coat, her feet encased in a pair of high heels. A fedora lays low on her brow, her curls springing out from underneath it to bounce on her neck. Her hands are clenched in her pockets and she keeps her gaze focused ahead, ready for...what? Danger? Surprise? Regardless, she won't be caught unawares.
Who is she?
I don't know.
She popped into my head last night and all I have is this startling image of her and her name. She has a story. A good one. But she's not talking yet, though I think she's getting ready to spill.
My pen is waiting.