Would You Caress A Broken Wing?
by Oro

She has a necklace that she wears all the time.

It was manufactured about a million times in the exact same mold, in three different colors, for some expensive brand she buys to impress people whose names she can't remember. And because the skirts create more than a fuckable impression, almost lovable, even.


She can never find this store in D.C.

When she was shot at, she lost the necklace, and in the back of her mind she would look for it like mad. She would talk and touch her neck and this 45 dollar necklace would not be there. Sam thought it was enough of a price for her life. She got too sentimental to give it to him, so she took it back.

He doesn't need it, anyway.

She has a dress that she swears is one of a kind. It's from L.A., too.

She wore it on a date and then later, when she crashed and burned on Toby's couch, sobbing about how all men are evil; because they are, damn it. He took her out for drinks because he didn't have anything in his apartment, and she told him that it's the best dress she has and that she wears it all the time. He didn't believe her.

They went back to his apartment and his couch and he said that she should wear this dress more often. Then she wasn't wearing it anymore.

She lay in his bed and he smelled like alcohol. He kissed the back of her neck and moved his hand to make her moan. In the darkness, she stared at the floor, covered with her dress. She looked at her dress cover the floor. She felt stripped and vulnerable and then she moaned into oblivion.

They fell asleep, eventually, and her dreams tasted like the beach and celebrities in bikinis. She dreamed of smog and fog and the heat sans humidity, and not being able to see the Hollywood sign through the pollution. It wouldn't have been betrayal if she hadn't been so sentimental about it.

You can take the girl out of the city, but you can't take the sand out of her shoes. Or something.

It's the necklace and the dress; not that she was aiming for Toby. Not like she ever does. She feels like disappointment again. It's definitely the necklace and the dress. She puts them on and drives home to take a shower and change clothes.

She has shoes. Too many; she still buys more.

Her heels clack on the floor and she feels like a tap dancer.

She's leaving for California again, and she knows they call this masochism; she hates it while she's there but she'll never stop missing it. They call it the city of Angels and she tries to forget; she prefers it in Spanish because it feels foreign. The airplane is about to land, and she idly reaches for her necklace.

It's the only city she knows that has black clouds.

She likes pretty things.


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