A character sketch of a depressed, thirty-year-old woman using words of one syllable.
There is a line and two three four, but not the count in for a song, on her face – in her face – for good and true. She needs the nail of her thumb to trace them each day to tell who she is. What she is. She thinks with the trace. She gets lost falls hits/lands. Old I guess but not much more than me. Sad I think but what is sad at three tens? So much to come, so much, she stares at the glass and frowns, lines one two three four five show on her face.