By Tripp Reade
Nobody remembers her now, which is good. She can move about as she pleases.
“Just seeing if I understand: you want to build in a declining neighborhood?” The realtor can hardly bring himself to look at his client, so terribly has the old woman been burned. She’s swiped some cosmetics across her annealed skin, granules of moist powder clumping and clinging to the ridges of her face. Why do old ladies bother with make-up? Not like it’s going to help. He shuffles and studies property lists, his legal pad of scrawl. “With no library nearby and, uh—” he squints at his notes “—‘high TV ownership’? Kind of an unusual request, Mrs. Hecks.”
“Ms., if we must.” Her voice is likewise charred. “I never took a husband.”