She looks unwell. Thin, cracked lips stretched tightly around naked gums. There are dentures somewhere. I bought them for her.
Hair uncombed. No makeup. Bags under her eyes the size of a carry-on.
Her shirt is old, the color a faded shade of what may have been pink 10 years ago. The stains are the prevalent theme today. And the holes.
No socks. No shoes.
She grimaces and her eyes well up with tears. Real or pre-fab I can’t tell. They would hurt me either way, and I suppose that’s the point.
She can’t get off the couch without help. When she does make it to her feet she is out of breath and sways in tiny circles, eyes shifting in and out of focus.
Her movements are slow and anguished. She gasps for breath and reaches for my arm to steady herself.
I loathe this person and love her.