The Saleswoman

The saleswoman wore yellow.

When she lowered her knees over the pelican, she caught two breaths, then no more. Cars passed. A flat face against glass like the preparation of a pie.

She sat in her office waiting for screens to change. She waited for future messages.

“Is that a feather in the corner of your mouth?” Paul asked.

“No,” the saleswoman said. “It’s the sound of the last two breaths of morning. Morning does end, you know.”

“I think it’s a feather,” Paul said. “It’s disgusting.”

“I see your name in red,” the saleswoman said, winking. “Last breaths come in twos.”

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