#180

twisting twice through the revolving doors, her mother was quick to chide her behavior. "how old are you?!" she hissed.
so she thought oh my! what if i really didn't know my age? i could be six or nine or twelve! looking at her hands, her legs, catching a glimpse of her long features in an ornate mirror. okay, maybe sixteen or nineteen or twenty-two.
nineteen was good year.
picking up her handpainted bag while her mother flirted futilely with the square-jawed concierge, she played with the ends of her skirt. each lobby painting was subtle and chosen for its extraordinary mediocrity. unoffensive fake flowers lay in beige pots on the coffee table. she pulled a locust shell from her pocket, setting it lightly on the fake peat moss. coyly, she smiled.