She had flesh to spare, fucks to give. He had time to hide, mouths to feed. He’d slip a note with the cash. A song in a riddle. Echoing against the bathroom wall, dinner table. Almost in the stairwell, between panic and passion. Bubblegum Pink tattooed on his chest. It wasn’t her life pinned heavy on the clothesline. Playing mother to pretend kids. The smell of somebody else’s kitchen in her clothes. She’ll quit jobs, haunt bars, bring men to their knees with her wicked tongue. He’ll write raunchy nursery rhymes behind his wife’s grocery lists, delivered to no one.
M.S. lives in India. Her work has been published here and there online. She’d like you to remember her with a smile if you do find any of it.