Dream -- May 05, 2014
I buy an army bag at a yard sale from a woman with messy, cropped, bleached hair, who looks older only because of her desperation to sell her belongings. I like the bag because it reminds me of the one I own now, but thinning and stained; I rummage through the pockets, watching the muscles on the woman's arms stretch the dried skin around her tattoos. I find handfuls of beautiful crystal jewelry in the bag and I rub them in my palms, hiding a pair of square-cut earrings surrounded by diamonds that I can see my reflection in.
The woman panics, searching for a specific piece with enormous sentimental value. I deny knowing about the jewelry while fingering the stones in my pockets, the edges wrapped in an antique silk scarf covered in gold script.
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