RubyNightseyes

The day seemed used somehow - well counted money squandered on trinkets she'd already worn in Istanbul, or slightly spoiled custard left to suffer the wrath of the noon day sun. It seemed too familiar - an aqcuaintance's worn hand seeking solace in her thighs while her husband made friends of his port and cigars, remembering the texture of her stockings against his chin. She knew the guilt of it - last Sunday's brandy left on the terrace and the sounds that nested in the eaves of the cottage the summer she turned twelve - all returned like mummers on holiday. It made the hours too delicate - the frail perfume of   the