#110 – Woman Thirty Seven

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Her lips and her nails are the same bright red as her stilettos –

adorned with rhinestones and chain encircling each

delicate ankle.

 

Her long red hair is closer to rust. It is dull, matted  –

angry at suffering a lifetime of neglect and abuse.

 

Repeatedly, nervously, her hand lifts the stemless glass to

her crimson lips. She gulps ice water as if her life depends on it.
Across the table
he sips liquid that is the same faded orange as her hair,
from a crystal tumbler.
He is decades older, a businessman, in a dark grey suit
and salmon colored tie.

Her face holds a sad beauty.
She is not young. She is not old.

He stands to emphasize a point in his story.

She moves her fingertip across the surface of her phone,
smiles and shows him a photograph.

They laugh together.

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