Galaxies

I've said she looked like a twenty-something, this Victoria. Well, she did. This girl wore a hushed, majestic, worldly cloak of an attitude, though not flourishing it much. She also wore small, dark-framed glasses. They gave her the look of an old soul, who would perhaps venture far beyond her library if she didn't see all the traps. But she told me that, like me, she was only nineteen:

'I'm telling you, Alfie, I am really only nineteen.'

'But you wear,' said I, 'such a hushed, majestic, worldly cloak of an attitude (though y' don't flourish it much). And those glasses,' said I, 'impart to you the look of an old soul, who would perhaps venture years beyond her library if she didn't see--'

'If you could drop the poetry,' she said, 'maybe you might get somewhere in figuring out who I really am.'

I read this as code for 'getting me into bed'; but perhaps I am crass.

'All right, Victoria,' I said. 'The poetry's all down. I'm tucking it in my back pocket, along with my dignity and temperance. Now tell me'--this time with her hand on my arm--just who' (looking deep into her eyes, those shadowed galaxies) '. . .exactly' (so so beautiful) '. . .you are.'