Mrs. Frolich had unflinching poise. She was so couth she made you feel uncouth just standing near her but that was never her intent just a natural consequence of being in her presence. Her hair was always swept up off her face in an elegant loose bun. Thick and buttery white, it was like a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Her skin was pale with a hint of blue undertone that she offset with her Max Factor orangey-red lipstick that few people can pull off without looking garish. Mrs. Frolich was one of them. She wore no rouge because she knew better and she was always dressed in feminine suits with straight skirts falling properly just below the knee that emphasized her thin figure and gave a hint of her life before. Of tea, lunches, garden clubs and martinis at five. I never saw her lying in her bed, rather she always sat upright with her ankles crossed like you imagine she learned at etiquette school and she never went without her L’eggs pantyhose in Nude. Once in awhile there was a pair hanging apologetically to dry on her shower bar and the plastic egg shell they came in could be found in her wastebasket discreetly pushed down below the tissues and empty Lipton tea bag envelopes. Her eyes were a shiny sea blue, watchful and solemn that were looking out in earnest for some explanation of how she’d come to be here. After all, she’d only blinked.
Mrs. Frolich was 81 years old when I met her. I was 15.
well said. 