Inexplicably she is old, with skin like honey leather.
"Which one do you regret the most?" I ask.
She responds with silence. I can see her chewing her bottom lip.
"That one?" I suggest, pointing at a skull rendered in ghastly detail on the curve of her waist.
"Nah, I really like that one," she says in a hickory-smoked voice. She thinks or continues to marinate; I can't tell. Then she lifts a stubby finger and places it accusingly on the inside of her wrist.
"This one," she says, and I notice the outline of a circle near her fingertip.
"Why?" I ask.
"I got it to remind me of infinity. I don't like it now. I don't believe in that shit anymore."
This is what I like about her, how she wheezes harmonica through her teeth.
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