No one knew what she really looked like. Some days she was brunette, some days blond. Some days entirely bald. Sometimes she walked with a breezy supermodel stomp. Sometimes she trudged with a slumping despair. She liked to think that she was as changeable as the sea, as adaptable as a chameleon. Shifting like a spectre and vanishing like a ghost.
Some people never meet a stranger; she never met a friend. Not on the subway. Not in the 7-11. Not in the mirror.
She reveled in being uncatchable, unknowable. No one could ever touch her. No one could ever recognize her.
Some nights, she lay her head on an expensive hotel pillow. Some nights she lay on a damp piece of cardboard. Some nights she shuddered and cried.
No one would ever touch her. No one would ever recognize her.
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