she peers into her mirror, a new wrinkle appeared overnight it seems. she doesn't feel her age and she still walks with a graceful gait.
humming songs that cling to her memory like flashes of satin.
she goes to good will because there she can slip backward and they still play all the oldies reminding her of parking lot lovers and riots with the younger crowd under bridges where they divided their criminal candy.
floral, that's her. strawberry lips and beehive hair and sandals that show crushed delight in full color on her toes.
she's perfectly in place being out of place. not afraid of the sunlight, being pale was never her thing.
she tells herself she's still young and wears old cardigans to stay warm. she builds campfires beneath night skies so he can't see her new wisdom lines.
whiskey and gin, and lots of it.
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