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She paces before the window, vignetted by mist generated by her simmering heat.
She pulls short stabbing puffs from the cigarette that crackles with each anxious drag.
Her lipstick coagulates around the tobacco fragments on her lower lip.
Sometimes she bites and spits, sometimes she hooks the offenders with her ring finger.
Her free hand holds the front of her dressing gown bunched in a death throttle.
For the umpteenth time she rubs a small porthole hole in the glass with the heel of her hand, one eye closed; the other small, binocular, searches the darkness.
He is there.
I know it before the tiny 'ahh' slips out.
She sucks one last exultant drag and extinguishes her fag, then swills—like mouthwash; the sediment of the wine bottle.
Her hair lies clumped in damp curls tight against her head—like molluscs; and, as her gown swings open I can see their siblings nestling at the edges of her black panties.
She straightens and stretches, shucking the tension.
'Time to go’, she instructs, 'don’t forget to be polite when you let him in'.
I slink out from behind the tatty club chair. My betraying eyes fall on her breasts—now fully exposed and swaying slightly.
'You know you’re too old for that now.'
One hangs noticeably lower than the other, the nipple thicker, roughened, the aureole stretched and pouchy looking. I lick my lips quickly as she nips the tip.
She laughs softly; cruelly. 'I said—go.'
She catches me stealing one last look before shutting her door and says in her "terrible" voice,
'Deal with your father when he comes home from work.'
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