her smell of oozing pus possessed me faster than a woodpecker can peck 20x in a second. she reeks of open, slowly rotting wound.
her stench crawled through my veins the moment i accepted her invitation for conversation.
she wears deterioration like a strong french perfume. for an instance, i somehow associate her smell with my dying grandfather back when i was in third grade.
if the photoshop of my mind could slowly reconstruct her facial features, she will most probably look like celine dion.
she asks for the time.
5:30. i told her.
it’s my stop. the train door opens.
i proceed to my destination fast, far from the shadows of the subway.