Smudged face,lipstick slapped, hair's a burn, hands are shaking, nails are chipped, she walks away her sillhouete and runs down into the dark. Her heels slop on the mud streets, her mouldy purse running along with her ; jingling with guilt.

Her eyes scurry over the streetlights, spy into bins of fishbones and mangy lingerie while her hands press up against the ruthless rips in her sheer skirt, or what's left of it. She's tired from the walking, from the pathetic persuading, from the heavy surrender to the timid aftermath . The money she got was worth spit. But what was she worth anyway.