A Greyhound dumped her here in sunglasses. Perhaps she came with oodles of cash, or perhaps she sleeps with the husbands. In public, her legs are always crossed. She would never trouble with the disappointment of pantyhose. No socks at all. The lone cabbie picks her up on the cracked sidewalk outside the cafe and drops her five blocks down, gratis, to avoid callousing the soles of those mirror shine pumps.

I know what you're thinking, but you won't get far.

I have seen her making diamonds out of tin foil, singing opera to herself over the neighbors' cartoons, standing in her bathrobe at the window listening to a serenade she imagines. She's full of air kisses, fake accents, and daydreams. Those fingers in her hair. She's a forgotten name with her back to the camera.

She only speaks to gentlemen and old ladies. The former she is fooling and with the latter, she shares her secret. She whores and she graces. It's easy to assume she's running. Our sleepy streets were happy to cover the trail of her mystery.

When she was not so quiet, did she sneak out the window at night and ride from party to party on a Tiffany broom? Did she swim in the silver night on a southern beach, dark as Coco Chanel in a black and white photo against the bleached sand? She's got the moon in her eyes. Did she cast that magic smile over whole cities, or has it always been small towns?

When they wake up and all these corn fed boys find her plaster walls empty, what will they say? She'll leave them nothing but false eyelashes curled like spiders behind the bureau. Did they think she could change their lives?

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