Queen of the Urban Jungle

She wore black loose fitting boots made for a woman half her age. In them she stomped down the street to work. The scarf around her neck was tied so tightly that it looked as if at any moment her face would explode.

From behind, you could see her dark brown curly hair still wet from the morning shower. She knew that as it would dry, her gray roots would become more noticeable. This displeased her greatly - but this is often the case with age. Displeasure.

She paused as a garbage man blew the snot from his nose onto the sidewalk. She shimmied past him hoping to get a whistle or a cat-call. But there was nothing. Just the sound of the man clearing out the other nasal cavity.

Before she made it halfway down the block her eyes filled with tears. Behind her dark sunglasses were the contrasting lines of mascara snakes. She thought about all the mornings alone, and the many internal battles fought in vein. She needed warmth and proximity. All she had now was her jiggly flesh that would keep her insulated through the cold winter nights - and that was all that really mattered anyway.