ehill
She had hoped for a better cut, for a bob maybe or an industrial look, one that would make people realize she was business. Because people don't take a girl in 3-inch heels with a smile goofy as a marble in jell-o very seriously. But she had thought she could attain the hair, and the crew cut wasn't doing her any favors.
Birth? For some reason I thought of something else that I can't remember now. I don't remember what being born was like what was it like? Did it hurt? Is that why we cry? Cold cold air in our lungs I never write fiction on these things. Just free-write. I don't know; I keep looking at it and seeing something else...
Clover is lucky, thinks Claire. She watches it creep along her legs, wild fire on her delicate skin. Do they have four leaves, though, or three? She bends down as if to count them, threading her fingers through the field of clover that have grown on her appendage. What is this, what is this? Some kind of unlucky fantasy, she realizes.