at the sight of a man in the women’s restroom, a flustered incomer inquired about her whereabouts. the man pointed to the dirty stall in answer.
“that’s my wife,” he slurred. “that’s my wife. she’s in there.”
the newly appointed wife emerged, locks of black hair cupping her face, her eyesight blurred by kohl and smoke, glass-shard fingers tugging at her skirt.
“yes, this is the women’s restroom,” she told the bewildered woman, while the man repeated his slow midnight mantra, unending.
leaving room for the red-faced woman to pass, the chosen bride held her carouser-groom’s forearm and led him toward the exit.
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