Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Pulp . . .
She had seen her pass by every morning for a year now. And the yellow dress wasn’t new, but the day was. She put the coffee cup down on the sill just as the machinists whistled at the girl - they whistled, in vain, in a replay, as though they had forgotten the girl ignored them the previous day, their hope was eternal, for a smile, a wink, perhaps something in her hips would say “yes.” Estelle wished for some acknowledgement too, as though the girl’s change in manner might be just the thing to jolt the world to it’s senses. She lit another cigarette and caught sight of herself in the mirror, she knew it was there, the long cut on her cheek bone, but she wanted to forget. There were people in the hallway, they stopped briefly at her door, she drew smoke deep into her lungs and let it out when the voices disappeared down the stairs. Had they noticed something about the door? Could they tell what had happened?