And if she pressed her lips against one man or another, did it matter? One man’s mouth might not taste like another, a Marlboro mastication long awaited on the dance floor, or a needy osculation stolen underneath a tree. In the end, though, solitude always had the same flavor. She dyed her hair burgundy, traded sneakers for Cuban-toe, a melodious laugh for a sly smile, and wore new prettiness like a heavy cape- both a disguise and a protection.
“Earnest,” she murmured, or perhaps she’d said “Ernest.” Her heels snapped on the sidewalk more quickly than may have been appropriate to the soft yellow skirts that now billowed behind her. The revolver made a soft crunch, falling in among fast food refuse and discarded shopping bags. The younger man waited amongst peach colored tulips, holding a wicker basket. Her footsteps were soft when she reached him, and she fingered the pack of Marlboros in the depths of her floral purse. One coffin nail smouldered in the fingers of a dead man. His cheeks still wet with tears; he would not be the last. The younger man spread the gingham, ignorant and sunny. One man or another, did it matter?