a lace dress, tight through the bodice down to her slender hips with yards and yards of skirt. when she rested her hands at her sides they were hidden by the lace and tulle. it rustled and scratched as she walked barefoot around her room, arranging rearranging, finding things she would have been better off forgetting.
holding flutes of champagne, his shiny black shoes with greased hair to match. the air around them heavy with perfumes and colognes. his grin. a new year.
a letter.
I don’t want to go to Paris. I want to die. Forgive me.
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