She slammed the palms of her hands in the product of the destruction until they were skinned and bleeding into the MIX... blood, tears, motor oil, July vapor and the stench of the river. The tears didn't trickle or burst, they pooled up and poured right out onto the black pavement, the emniotic fluid of pain. The hot birth of *loss*. They mingle with the blood pooling there seeping into the pores of the road, black and shimmery in that steamy night in July.
That throat lump
sometimes a pearl
sometimes a pomegranate
it never completely went away
if just lay dormant until ignition
it was the ball of mercury in her thermometer of Plausible Deniability...
Despite the indignity of it all, she like to maintain an image of herself as stoic, long suffering, if a little indignant
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