People swear, there are towers in her eyes. That’s just half the truth though,
balancing from this to that side, she adjusts, balloon in hand, sprayed wall always to her left.
“Left” is what’s written in her palm as well.
She can’t remember how it got there, ferro on the tongue taste.
Besides, her french is hard to understand,
as if wind blows through a scaffold and all screws and bars vibrate at once.
Today she found a cloud,
buried in a puddle with crimson nylon stockings and two cigarette butts.
There was no way to save it.
Linking up with Friday Fictioneers where we write 100 word fiction to a photo of the Eiffel tower by Douglas MacIlroy