Beneath the ounces of foundation and mascara'd lids you can almost detect a sense of immense beauty. She hides it away under number seven and a layer of self depreciation. The late night holds a secret; some shocking encouragement so forth her lap is filled with a thorntons white chocolate easter egg.
Half eaten.
Melted milky magma coats her fingers and fingernails like something off-white and unspeakable. Her sweet banquet is momentarily blocked by the gaggle of unbalanced party goers rocking into the train, all high-heels and legs and giggles and indiscriminate flirting.
She sighs and places the egg back in its package. It nestles guiltily. Licking her fingers is her final battle.
No comments:
Post a Comment