She had shit her pants.

The room was almost palpable with the scent but the girl came in feigning oblivion, gently suckling a small breathe through her mouth before she entered. She helped the old woman up, and underneath her there was a visible bruise on the bed sheets. Many a times , and once again the girl marveled at the old woman’s strength that goes unperceived under regular means with it’s constant jitters and shakes, but once latched onto her arm for instance, could have been at one time a deadly strong hold.

The bathroom was down a short narrow hall at the end of the room which had always frightened the girl, so she would reached in with her arm and turn on the lights before entering. For a split second before emerging into the small square footage, there was always an erratic fear of her reflection in the mirror, but time and again, she does not recognize whether it is disappointment or relief in the same old projection of herself. It was a daunting task to gently lay the woman on the seat as she had a habit of swiftly plumping herself down after another series of trembles as if her legs simply gave out. Kneeling, the girl pulled down the bottoms and proceeded. Placing the pad, she could feel the timid heat originating from the loins hovering inches above her hand. The old woman muttered her thankyous and offered praises, but the girl gave response only in her stoic expression, finding rather petulant the entire ritual – the entire humane habit to flatter only during given favors.

The old woman opened the cabinet underneath the sink and struggled with a certain grouping of plastic bags. The entire area of the cabinet was sporadically occupied, reminding once again that only she frequently patronized this restroom. With leathery hands she handed a wad of 700 something cash to the girl and told her to keep it safe.
The girl only looked at her with a kaleidoscopic disbelief, which was contradicted by a keen acceptance and comprehension of the situation. A mixture of greed and guilt brought before her and the moment lasted forever.

The girl was not quite so baffled by her position. She had found that thongs were indeed very uncomfortable subjects. She laid on her living room couch that was though brightly lit, still harvested a slight innate gloom, as if somehow the dark of the night had an inescapable encompassing effect that crept into the crevices and stayed in the ruffles of the curtains. He was talking to her energetically but she had fallen asleep.

And then he started an interrogation of a sort – between her grooming choices and her daily affairs. It was one o’clock at night and the old woman came out. Unmistakable in her tell-tale shuffling on the floor boards, exasperated in her chastise. Wild eyed and curled hair, the girl always presumed her a madwoman during these nights. His breathing was audible underneath the tang of electrical buzz between the telephone cords, the girl was slightly unnerved but nevertheless held her composure. The world was a pony ride.

It was the hottest summer and the old woman had once again taken over, laying on her sofa bed, leaving behind the soft imprint of sweat that casts a large woman’s silhouette with her arms and legs displayed about at odd angles, not unlike the ones they outlined at crime scenes. So the girl now slept on the floor, writhing in her blankets to escape her own skin during the nights. They only ate chicken and soup because that was all the old woman would make, claiming other products wasteful and much too highly valued in price.

He held her in embrace but he was also chastening her in his good-will conversation. She was angry, but the small figure of a feminine figure remained still in his arms. Her deeds are no longer pure, as will many forthcoming gentlemen later in life say. Nobody wants a tarnished product.

Jealousy is a bitch. The girl looked out from her apartment window. The sun was setting ablaze, what a beautiful time of the day to go dive. She measured the distance from her window to the ground. Perhaps she would die- an abstract art of sorts. Imagining the exhilaration. But the wind caught her breathe away, and the old woman had shit her pants again.