Dorothy’s coffee cup trembled now, and her vein appeared as her brow furrowed. “How dare she call me ma’am… I’m forty two!”. She steadied herself as she stood up, plotted her course to the ensuite and made herself sick. Untying her hair and wiping her mouth on the pink guest towels - happy now - she decided to book a table for herself somewhere in the city. She sank into the loveseat, trying to work an iPhone with false nails. She began to calm, and added another dash of whiskey to her espresso macchiato, her cigarette smouldering in the shag pile carpet.
-
bookstorey liked this
-
punkcereal posted this
