These Chinese gals with their beaus recall the old French films in particular. That blossoming time of urban arrival, the appearance of fashion magazines, automobiles on the cobblestone streets, lasses in their smart dresses trying out. Hairspray held coiffures in place. Wrist watches an adornment more than handbags. High heels and double-breasted mantles. The chap of course unreliable, evasive, pretending, girls destabilised by him. Cars honking on the street.
Mirror such as the one here at Toast Box all along the back wall enlarging the drama. In this case sans cigarette smoke rising from the tables at all points.
On the Mainland where this lass at the adjoining table originates, the smoke is still clearing no doubt. A wonder the fellow can sit there so long without his prop.
High wide belt almost under her breasts fits in the same reel. A kind of subtle corset pushing out curves and sloping undulations.
From her handbag the tissue for him; he needn’t worry about such things. He is a man; she wouldn't want him if he carried tissues. The thought of it. (In Singapore cafe serviettes no-where to be found. Not at any of the hawker stalls, eateries or street cafes. Only the a la carte joints lay them on. One feels the hand of Mr. Lee and the PAP Cabinet: if people pay for their own we won't have them littering the streets. At the same time gainful employment for the poor, lame, deaf and mute, peddling them throughout the city.)
The smiles of the girl reminiscent too. Still working on the furtive. Not too wide, monitoring response. If he doesn't partake she'll wipe it.
Almost polka dot coming off the shoulder. You know the kind of thing.
Trackie bottoms lad sported. A first at Toast Box, largely informal though it be. Mainlanders for cert. Rich memories of the streets of Melbourne of the time.
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