Her gait and quirky smile betray nothing of her inner turmoil. Her breasts bounce in her blouse, a wink of cleavage but nothing too ostentatious. Her ass shimmies back and forth with her defiant swagger. One pump in front of the other, she strides, overconfident, clicking against the sidewalk. Although her innards are paste, she owns every step.
The buildings grin their approval, their continual ascent into the sparkling blue forever a ringing endorsement. Cars hum past her, encouraging her with leering glances, occasional honked horns, and silent votes of sympathy from others feeling the sting of rejection. As the breeze flutters through her black mane it tickles her, catching a hint of Chanel and longing.
She does this out of necessity, after you–yes you–pushed her past the breaking point. You inserted that glistening blade through her ribs, right up to the hilt and twisted until you could see daylight. You bled her out, spilling candy heart rivulets from her. You with your I need my own space. You with your I don’t feel the same way I used to. You with your I’m stagnating. Once clustered around her broken form, you ground those sweet tarts into a pastel powder, spraying it off the sidewalk with your nonchalance. Each smile, each wink, each sweaty sheet, each entwined hand now trickled into the sewers through jagged lips of concrete.
Of course there were numerous options available to her broken heart. She could have taken revenge. She could have curled into a tight, cat-like ball of self-loathing. She could have marched into the nearest bar and ordered a bottle of Jameson. All these methods held some appeal to her. All of them she’d dabbled with in the past to limited degrees of success. But she chose this path, a visible path of lust unrequited. All the unhealthy interest, the hoots and honks are exhaust in her wake. And her bruised ego mends. She can’t wait until you see her. After that you’ll understand that, despite everything, she’ll move on with her life. You can’t destroy her. She’ll be just fine.