xxv. dying
She dresses with her back to him.
Shoulder blades sharp and bulging; loose skin hanging off her bones pale and mottled. She puts on the dress, carefully, sees him in the mirror watching. Runs her hand across her naked scalp, ties a scarf around her head. And smiles.
A single wilted rose is pinned on her lapel, drooping. Her namesake, a dark joke of hers.
She twirls, arms spread. "How do I look, dear?"
Like a dying person, he thinks. Like an angel.
He takes up his cane from the wall and puts on his bowler hat. "Beautiful," he says.