They thought she didn’t notice.
People staring at her. Whispering. Talking about her. Wondering why she was sitting there every day. A woman, her hair unkempt, her colorful clothes torn in some places, dirty in others. She wore boots two sizes too big, but it’s her socks that caught more attention – one red, one yellow.
There was a time when she cared. Cared what she looked like. Cared what people thought. Cared about her body, her needs, her wants, her desires.
Not since he died.
The day he left her, was the day she put on the mask.
The world was not the same without him. Not once has she touched herself since his fingers had stirred her tender parts. Her desires died with him. Her soul followed his into the abyss.
The world saw what they wanted to see. No one noticed the mask. They didn’t see that everything died within, the day he did. She sat there, quietly staring at the graffiti – the colors of her clothes reflected in the wall.
And she thought of him.
His hands on her body. His fingers inside her. Her hands encircling his cock.
She thinks of their time together.
Their happiness, their intimacy.
Of how much she loved him.
Her heart was in a million pieces. Tears streamed, but no one saw.
They saw a dirty woman.
She was the woman who longed for the day it all ended.
© Rebel’s Notes