In an upside down life, her body is both white and beautiful. She paints her body in ochre and azure blue, like the druids used to do. Wode she were, for sure. Peut etre. Gallic shrug.

Seven pots of sticky red wine sunk with water snakes onto her breast. Sore crushed through she were., Nazi soldiers served first. Hand moulded she were.Spoilt. Sees into the life of things. I still keep my son's old  ❤ safe.

Other girls slouch around the cafe, smoke unfiltered Gauloise cigarettes. It is 1942. Slave labourers from the east are building more final solutions by the dozen. In her town, blue aprons are de rigueur. Goblin-itinerants, from camps outside the surrounding villages, run down the road to catch her. Catch her, they will. She turns herself into blackbird, blackbird disappears during  the first hour after dawn. 

White collar workers do not notice girls with tight lips and no money. She has nicotine stained fingers and s faint whiff of absinthe, as was, again, de rigueur in late 1942.  That was a time of slavery, half-formed  tall tales of bad and worst triumphing over fairly good that nobody will believe in times of viruses and opulence and obesity.