A classical beauty, she was tall and slim with an enviable female silhouette. Her flawless skin was as soft and creamy as porcelain; her shoulder-length hair as pale and lustrous as cornsilk. High cheek bones and a caustic tongue, both sharp enough to inflict mortal pain.
She sat on a high stool at the bar, surveying her subjects, a dewy glass of chardonnay in her right hand, a frat-boy ingénu kissing her left.
Little did she know, a usurper was in her midst. A younger, more glamorous arriviste plotted her dethroning.
The Queen is dead, long live the Queen.
Thin spiral notebook 
I love the word ‘usurper.’ Well done!
LikeLike
I’m quite fond of it too.
LikeLike
This made me smile. There is always another queen in the wings, isn’t there? Love it!
LikeLike