She's Polish, Czech or Russian. She reeks of liquor and her cheeks are full of cotton swabs, there is dried blood on her lips. She gives me a friendly smile and I immediately overlook the blood and stench. I notice she has breasts, they might not be very nice, but she has them... and she has an ass, two legs, two arms and a whole head of hair. Once again I find myself sucked into that black hole of a woman showing me the slightest bit of attention. I imagine her placing her People Weekly magazine down and telling me she wants me now in the washroom of the mental hospital.
Why Do We Exist?
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Literary Fiction, Noir, Pulp Fiction, Short Stories