Monday Morning Blood
There were three that Monday morning. One wore black leather pumps and a herringbone twill checkered black and white tailored suit with French chocolate stockings.
The other one had on a stiff gray, matron’s outfit with chalk grey flats, sized 10 extra wide. The one with the grey had a fluidity of movement about her legs and shoulders that caused the viewer’s eyes to pause in a contemplative debate on being unequally yoked.
The third one wore anemic jeans, too tired from wear and thread bare at the ass with sackcloth sandals.
They stood in a semi-circle discussing something of importance, when the jean wearer glimpsed a red bead drop to the tiled floor directly between the legs of the checkered suit. There on the tile was a single drop of blood. The jean wearer stared and to her amazement another bead of blood dropped and another painted the pale tiles in front of her.
The jean wearer tried to discern some visible evidence of pain or alarm or something in the expression or voice of the twill suit wearer but there was no change, no voice fluctuations and no adjusted movements. It was as if, all was well in her world.
What to do and what to say? The concerned jean wearer wondered.
Finally in bewilderment, she spoke up with, “ Is everything all right?” while her pointing finger moved the other suits’ attention to the crimson spots on the floor between the right and left black pumps.
more by DEBRA BISHOP
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