Hair

She stepped outside in a daze; people in business attire and city workers in orange garb were bustling around; buses and taxis honked and hoo-yahed, steam rose from the ground.  She must have been in the bar for at least six hours.

Her hair smelled like Grey Goose, red lipstick, and an old Michael Bolton song.  She was in desperate need of a cigarette, black coffee and a shower.  She only had five hours before bible study.  Manhattan’s a fucked up place, she thought.

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