From afar, Margaret was of an indeterminate age. Her sleek and soft grey hair – woven with peach and bits of white – alluded to maturity. Youthful amber eyes that were always watching and always full of disdain would leave you unsettled, feeling that she was merely looking through you, not at you.
Patient, she would sit for hours in a singular pose – but look closer. Her eyes darted constantly, taking in the world, the room, and you.
Her voice, though rarely used, could cut through the silence and startle those unfamiliar with her company. Used to getting her way, she spoke loudly with a gravelly tone in an insistent and intimidating manner.
Prone to using her beauty to achieve her goals, slender and lithe, she would sashay across the room, with no other purpose than to draw attention her femininity and assert her control over others.
Cold and distant to most, even those who knew her longest, her casual and indiscriminate drug use belied the careful demeanor she had built up. Glimpses of her warmth and youth peeked through during these times and you questioned your perception of Margaret.
But then she would shake it off, lick her tail and saunter off. The moment had passed. The moment had passed. The catnip high over.