Tuesday 200 - #57

I met her just after she came to London. We were dancing at Pacha. A talent scout with a keen eye and a jittery hand found her in the club, after spilling sangria on her previously unstained jeans. She was the toast of the catwalk within six months.

Two years later, her catwalk’s a side street off Clapham Commons. Professionally colored hair has grown into a sheaf of straw pulled back into a sloppy knot. Couture skirts have been replaced with track pants and and an oversized green khaki coat with a fake fur hood.

We used to go shopping for push-up bras and boys. Today her Tesco's bag is filled with nursing pads. The baby strapped to her chest can’t be more than a month old. The black knit cap on his head barely contains enough yarn to make a mitten for my hand.

I can’t tell if she doesn’t see me or is just pretending not to.

I know I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but I can’t help hearing her broken English, “Mama, I want to come home.”

I almost feel bad for selling her that first bag of crystal.

But a girl’s gotta make a living.

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