She’s got a heavy heart
a messy soul
a reckless mind
And I think it’s beautiful the way she carries herself
There is a girl sitting at a table at 12:34 AM with a cup of cold half-drunk tea in it. The tabletop is laminated and smooth, with a tacky design covered in stains dried through the plastic. A reflection of the Diner itself. There is a crack on the saucer and the damp tea bag bleeds orange onto the table, its yellow tag drowns in its own life.
there is a girl sitting at a table at 12:35 AM with a cup of cold tea and she is conversing with her demons. Its right there, in those drifting grey eyes of hers. That look. The one you see at the back seat of silent wedding halls. The ones you see burrowing into the fresh earth of a grave. The one of loss and regret and she wore these looks with the same ceremony the bride wears the dress and the corpse; its death.
there is a girl sitting at the table at 12:37 with a cup of cold tea and perfectly ruined makeup. She had tried to hide it; a tissue crumpled in her fist was damp with her beauty. She had tried to hide it, but if you looked long enough her cheeks had tiny remnants of mascara and eyeliner that had bled from her eyes and stained her face. The right corner of her mouth had a smudge of lipstick trailing onto her chin, like a lovely bruise. And that immaculate bun of hers had long since fallen apart and only tousled curls and windblown strands shivered in the breeze of the humming fan.
there is a girl at the table at 1:00 and she has not moved an inch since she had sat down and removed her shoes. They were beautiful in the way only a woman can appreciate. Stilettoed, suede with a dainty clasp around the ankle. They were sodden. Ruined. Once upon a time they would have matched her dress. That rich cherry wine color and how it looked against the pink flush of her skin. Draped over her like something classical yet sexy, without the edginess of being called whorish.
She was wearing the tan line of a wedding ring. The wedding ring in question was murdered. Suffocated. Drowned in the dregs of cold tea. Through the haze of strong black tea, it glinted in the fluorescence.
There is a broken shell of a woman seated at the table in the height of the morning and she is mourning. You can see it in the way she shivers in the heat of the summer. In the way, she gulps and blinks too fast when her eyes get glassy. In the way, she is twisting the tissue into fine confetti across the table top. Or maybe it was that ache she was trying to rub away with the knuckles of her left fist. The aches just below her collar bone and just above her breasts.
By 1:06 there was no girl. Only confetti stained by beauty, the blood of a wrung-out tea bag, a puddle next to where she was sat and a wedding ring swimming in cold cold tea.
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If you enjoyed it, here’s the links to part One and Three:’)
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