The curtains were dingy, the floor was slight cracked, visage had faltered unseen and unchecked. Remembrance suffered in daintiness gone, she smiled in the mirror, and moved then along. Sojourn expected she waivered severe, just a thread of the beauty sublime left within.
Her name was Marlene and she lived in a dream that had died in cried room in forsaken hovel to stand alone grim like some forgotten novel.
Her fingers still felt they could wander in beauty, yet beauty abandoned long fled, like a tiresome butterfly caged in a harem, or bleeding false money despair. Yet she took a deep breath to remember some past which she couldn’t accept like a necklace once worn by the one she once suffered forsaken. And she tugged at her stockings to straighten repose. She buttoned her dress and walked out on the street.
The sidewalks were dusky, the streets were obscure, a bar on the corner familiar to her with welcoming handclaps oblique and demure, a smoke-drunken song unnoticed by many reminded her somehow of Kurt Weill’s Threepenny.
She walked in, clicking torn and worn heels, at the bar she sat down and ordered a gin. Straight up. But a cheap cup. And watched the patrons fade like murky shadows in the greasy glass …