Irene's Power
Frankly her friends made her laugh. Silly phone calls at all hours, jokes about the men twisted into finger-width bands, the documentation of power for that's all it could be called, all lapsed into Irene's mind, which this morning was tucked into a hidden pocket in the pleated velvet skirt of the French maid outfit on the floor. The ones who wanted her were the steel supports on the bridge of her ego, which spanned the chasm from emotion to thought. Charm or the wearing down, then Irene gave in. When she dressed she may as well tie a headband around her temples, lace up calf-length combat boots, throw the rounds in an X over her chest, lock, load. Vengeance was imperative, and it does not dissipate when its object goes unfound. But it had been a long time since she'd done it for herself. Now it was habit, now it was something to make her friends laugh in return. Irene bubbled the night into the phone, the laughs came, that was the reward. There was a stirring on the bed. She gathered the too small, thin clothes, her shoes, her bag. The do not disturb sign was on the door. Irene stood over the mirror. Sure, somewhere on that bridge was a marker, bronzed and dated, describing her wedding. Garlands, a harpist, a yacht. But she had years left for that.
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