A religious woman with freckle-dusted peach-skin titters disarmingly into her phone. The tinny echo of her pitch soaks into the blastproof walls inside my head. The highlight of every week, and the pinnacle a years of mundane routine. Just some girl from a southern state who doesn't even speak the language she's peddling. Small-talk runs aground in an ocean of religion, family, and etiquette. I print out a sepia smile for myself. Her made-up persona persists through my dreary weeks, and nudges other apparitions out of my white-streaked eyes.
4:41 p.m. - 2017-02-27
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