Towels on seats and scratchy feet.
Life is suffering, suffering a life.
Beat a dead horse with philosophy.
Taking pictures off the charcoal wall.
The man she love isn’t him.
Broken records were his life’s work.
The woman with a broken heel walked in front of him. She breathed gin into a restless night and spoke of sin to the people that passed. All heard was the clacking of her shoe. Three metallic knocks on the pavement. Clickickick, went the death rattle of the heel. He stared at her feet and she told him that that costs extra. He asked, What? Fetishes don’t come cheap, she said. Her hair was knotted in the place it ought not to, and her velvet dress had stains he didn’t want to know about. She wasn’t pretty because she didn’t need to be. People take it or leave her. She thought she could hide her age with foundation, or she was hiding it and he was the fool.