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| You can tell when they've been through when there clods of
mangy fur scattered on the sidewalk. The street cleaners never get rid of
all traces of their presence either... clods of fur and flesh in the cracks
for weeks. |
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| The last of the three is definitely the black sheep of the
family... not that they're necessarily related. There are just so many ways
that she clashes with the others: neat, proper, curteous. Seems like she
drove out of some nice, quiet, suburban neighborhood. |
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She's always wearing a blouse, cable knit sweater and a striped, knee-legth
skirt. (She kind of reminds me of so many of the women that I used to see
at school bake sales watching the cash with a friendly little smile and
just a bit of barren chit chat.) |
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| (crow's feet spreading from the corners of her eyes as she prattles
on, prying for more info for the neighborhood gossip fire.) |
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The saleswoman has stray wisps of hair sticking out of
the homely hair bun on top of her head... Like electrons escaping
the tyrannous nucleus'
pull. |
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She's pretty short and squat... wobbles to this house... weebles to
the next. Like a metronome ticking and tocking all by itself down the
street. |
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