My favorite picture of Grace is the one of her on the toilet, when her legs balance on arched feet like a ballerina at the peak of her arabesque. A sea foam thong stretches thin as a rubber band between pigeon-toed calves that cascade in curves so intoxicating, the view would tempt anyone to reach between her knees. Even the most staunchly disciplined. Even me.
She’s bent at the waist in a listless slouch and clutching a plastic champagne cup half full of a forth cranberry mimosa. Her fingers stagger like spiral steps around the flute, accented by the mall kiosk zirconia hanging off on her middle knuckle. Indolent eyes peer up at the shower curtain or the grout in between the neon white tiles, a stubborn filth I could never eradicate, not even with bleach pens and hours of tooth brush detail.
A deluge of light from the window…
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