She waits on the strip, clutching a scrap of sweater around her against the night wind. Tired eyes scan the street both wary and seeking. She paces short steps on long legs forced to stressed beauty in whore-high heels. It was a long night. She glances up at the fading moon. Dawn approaches furtively, thieving the blanket of darkness. In the grim grey shadows, the marks of the evening are upon a face yet lovely. She will go hungry tomorrow. 'Bastards' she thinks. The money means less than the bruises. She'll not have as many dates tomorrow, or the next day. Makeup only hides so much...The shiny cars behind her are less bright than the welling tears in her eyes. The reverse shadow of the the Cadillac sign falls across a used item, taunting her with its false promises of the good life. She was new once too.
©Sonja Torres 2000