The Woman

Her breath was smoke, coiling into a veil over her shadowy eyes.

The bitter taste, the acrid smell;

The hiss of air between lipstick-stained teeth;

The cloying heaviness of damp mascara.

The fluorescent lamps flickered,

A soft electric hum

A faint popping

It filled the head—whatever wasn’t already filled with smoke;

Drowning out the dull headache.

The lamps cast a stark, flat light on the bar

Scraping away the shadows and leaving it all painted in the too-bright flicker.

A fly landed on the malachite-green countertop

Glistening black, with bulging compound eyes

It appraised her as she regarded it.

The drop of egg white foam spattered on the counter proved more interesting.

She sent a long sigh of white smoke drifting up towards the ceiling

To hell with this place.

To hell with it all.

She looked out the grimy window

Gazing past her tired reflection onto the street.

The cold beam of a street lamp illuminated the curb;

The headlights of an idling car

A girl on the street corner

Coy whispers and soft giggles

Mumbled confessions and smudged lip gloss.

The car drove away,

Leaving an empty sidewalk

And a woman in the filthy glass staring back at her—

Cigarette between fingers banded green from fake silver

And a smoky veil that couldn’t hide the bags beneath her eyes.

A stranger, that woman in the glass.

She tapped a nail on the bar

“A whiskey sour.”

The young man behind the counter nodded in affirmative.

He had a youthful face—beautiful the way a new flower is

Even in the flat light, his features were full

No wrinkles to contend with,

No blemishes to mask,

No life lived to be hidden.

The cigarette found its way between her lips again, and she felt the smoke fill her mouth

Soon…

Soon it would all be over.

A note from the author:

This is another piece from the archives, first published in my school's literary magazine in 2022, and marking the beginning of my foray into prose poetry (where I believe I've finally found my niche, at least for the time being). As a curatorial note, I would like to clarify that my inclusion of the above two Edward Hopper paintings is not because the unnamed woman in my poem is based on either of the depicted female characters. Rather, Hopper's depictions of urban isolation (of which Nighthawks and Automat are standout examples) perfectly capture the sense of fatigued loneliness I sought to convey in my piece.

I hope you enjoyed, and I'll see you in the next story!

– TYC