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Using the dress as a rag, he doused a corner of it with nail polish remover, and began stripping off the coat of quick dry polish, which he had applied the night before. When he was through, he slid off his white slip, pulled off his bloody pantyhose, and unhooked his padded bra. Dressed only in his satin panties, Pat rummaged through the sack from the drugstore and found the white cotton sox. Next, the tee shirt and sweatpants. As he bent down to put on his sneakers, for the first time in over an hour, Pat allowed himself to relax a bit. He fished through his purse, and salvaged the remaining bills and coins. Now all he had to do was wait until the coast was clear, have a quick look at himself in the mirror, and duck out of the ladies room. He heard someone moving about by one of the sinks, so he settled in to wait.Suddenly, the lights went dark, and there was a terrible roar. The whole building seemed to rock, and the cacophony of noises was deafening. For a moment, it seemed like. The tiles, once white, are now green with mildew fed from the fetid water and decorated with thick rusted needles. He left. Fine he left. Said it was my fault. I agreed. But only to him. I can’t blame myself. There was more to it than that. So much more. But that’s the way it goes. He’s over and done with me and I sit here rotting. Waiting for the scar tissue around the hole in my mind (where all of the things I believed about him have been distorted, warped, changed and ripped out) to harden. Waiting for the scars across my torn fingerprints to close and fade into one of the many lines that say so much without speaking. He worked his way into my fingerprints. Fingerprints do change. They are lives. You can read a fortune upon them and, if you follow the curves, distinguish individual pain. Fingerprints burn and cry and bleed longer, harder than eyes ever could. I wash them daily, my scars and fingerprints. Caress them. Sometimes I see him. Just long enough that he can thrust.
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