Gibson Girl

I was at one of my favorite local coffee shops, chatting away with a snarky, black-haired,black-booted barrista when I noticed an intriguing tattoo on her forearm.  There was this beautiful Gibson Girl growing out of a rose.  It was stunning.  Really, honestly stunning.

"That's a gorgeous tattoo," I said, handing over a twenty dollar bill, admiring the work of whoever had been her artist.  "I love the Gibson girl--that Victorian ideal of feminine youth."

"I love her, too," my coffee girl beamed as she readied my latte.  "I've always thought she is so classy, so très chic and soooo pretty.  Who wouldn't want a girl like her on their arm?"

"Pretty girls weren't meant to hang on everyone's arm, darling," I teased,  "but I sure can admire a fine specimen when I see one and it looks like you are one lucky lady."

We laughed and she gave me my coffee and my change.  I smiled every time I thought about her.  I hope she smiled all day, too.