She glanced at herself in the mirror and sighed.
The rays of sun were trying to get in her room, competing with the blinds, which were like the royal court guards, protecting the inside from those stubborn lads, that were apparently trying to invade the little kingdom, which, clearly, was just a room in another newly put up apartment block in Bronx. “How did that happen?” wondered she. She has blonde hair, not really long, nearly reaching her breasts. The hair is in good condition — a small ray that conquered its way inside, was reflecting through the full-length arched mirror, which was not enough to see the woman’s face to the fullest, yet perfectly adequate to notice the silky smooth texture of her hair. She reached for a photo frame which was standing on a wooden bedside cabinet. She looked down at the picture and saw herself with another woman. It was, perhaps, Indian summer, but she couldn’t really tell — they were wearing trench coats and laughing at the soon to have been melted ice cream, which had almost fallen off the waffle cone. They both were seemingly having fun, though it didn’t mean anything to her any more. She flipped the picture over to see the back of the frame and noticed a heartfelt kiss over the written by hand date — 17.09.2019. “This must have been utterly important to her” she pondered.
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