Like a gypsy

She looked stunning, “like a gypsy," one of her housemates mentioned in passing. It was definitely the black scarf adorned with faded red roses and thorns that she had tied into her boyish hair cut. But that wasn't all. She wore a form-fitting grey thermal, coffee-stained on the chest. Then, of course, the indigo skinny jeans she pilfered a few weeks ago. The ensemble would've appeared tacky, out of place in the world of haut coutre, but he couldn't have felt more contrarily. Especially tonight: beyond the clothes, her whole demeanor had changed. Her mannerisms weren't choppy, gestures weren't exaggerated, even her lively skin tone whispered a certain poise. So they glided through the night in each other's company, it was really something, and for once it wasn't suspicious to anticipate a happier future. They were already tasting it, and that was proof enough. The difference was one of emphasis. All the usual problems were present in new disguises, but tonight, two hours of conversation interrupted by the housemates and her frequent visits to the bathroom showed that they both were reaching a point of no return. They both were learning. He was moving back, she was moving out of that unhappy house with dignity, and that's how they were becoming themselves again.