There is a woman who sits at her window, stares out on the world, and sips her tea.
She is fashion. What she wears, the world wears. Her lips, the vibrant red of the orient, stained the white china as she sipped the sweet, steaming beverage. Her teeth so white and perfect, her hair, a vivid black, pressed to her head in the styled waves. Her nails match her lips and her dress does, as well, and her shoes are like ladybugs, red with black dots.
She is grace. The way she gets up from her chair and disappears behind the architectural curtain, the part of her life that no one can see, but everyone wishes to. Her skirt flares at her thighs, her balance perfect, her posture admired by choir boys and conductors.
She is a revolutionary. A woman looked up at her, and said "This is the image of the American Woman." The flappers were born.
She is a model. A tired man, his ebony skin contrasting against the whites of his eyes, saw how beautifully she wore herself, colored her skin black in his mind, and so came the Harlem Renaissance.
And all she's ever done is sat there and drink tea in her window.
