Dressed and ready, and waiting.
She has put on her pearls and done her hair
Just so.
Lined her eyes and lips
Delicately applied a hint of rouge which will
Become unnecessary once she steps out in the
Biting wind.
Who does she see as she sits at the counter
Untouched coffee and a menu that she will never read?
Coat primly buttoned and purse in her lap
Holding it to keep it safe from
Those who might steal.
Where is he?
Will he come?
How long has she been waiting there?

The tortoiseshell handles of her purse bite her hand as she leaves.
The wind whips against her cheeks, and flies against her hair.
The blue of the ceiling is replaced by the harsh blue of the
Cold sky.
She grasps her hands against her coat and pulls the folds tighter
And tighter against the eyes of those on the street.

Do they know what she feels?
Do they know how lonely she is?
Can they see how deep her sadness is?
She hides it well, in her pristinely painted
Clenched lips.

What was the point of the pearls?
What was the point of the dress?
What was the point of even going out into the world,
At all?


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