Match

The lipstick smears from her mouth make her look like she's bleeding. Her mouth is closed and her jaw is tight, each molar clinging to its mate like they are puzzle pieces. She rubs her face and her chipped nail polish shines in the moonlight. Her mascara is running following the curvatures of her cheeks.

She is walking home in the rain and her high-heeled feet pound as she pounds the pavement. The bag on her arm is filled with an empty bottle, a cigarette stub, half a tube of lipstick, and the crumpled foil of a condom wrapper.

One hand holds an umbrella while the other fumbles around in the purse. She finds the bit of cigarette and lights it with the matchbook in her jacket pocket, juggling the umbrella ungracefully. She tosses the match, still lit, on the wet pavement.

For a moment it flickers, and then it goes out. She blinks and keeps walking.