She had a couple of bad tattoos she wanted to cover up. Shared an imitation Victorian short one story with a failed musician, a bass-playing carpenter who lived for the Atlanta Falcons and cocaine. But the woman, she had a kindness in her heart, a beauty you couldn’t erase with lowlife.
And this wasn’t misery, it was just a pit stop along the way to it. This was the one room in the center of the house littered with music magazines and nine penny nails and several mirrors with razor blades taped to the front.
I saw what was happening. And I stepped into the room. But the way out was closing and everything had that soft tinge of too little sleep and too little sense. Having pledged allegiance to that light so many days and nights, I’d grown fond of it. What friendship remained reduced to shaky mythological memories aggravated by time spent hoovering those mirrors.
by Hank Cherry