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Fashion Spreads

Out of Fashion

You exploded into my life like a closet bursting open stuffed with vintage garb salvaged from

consignment stores stocking a collection as varied as a decanter of gum balls.


Kitten heels clicking, A line dress swaying, your forearm hooked through the handle of a

handbag, you ordered a black cold brew with plastic tender.


Gingham, houndstooth, tartan, pashmina, silk, suede-my existence dressed up in fabric and

accoutrements fit for an actress in a tv program now trending.


Your French tipped nails clawed off my Spanx, your soft fingers caressed the goo of my muffin

top. My bed bustled by coitus, hospital corners messy, my mind tidied of malaise.


Patchouli gel, and hibiscus perfume scented my bathroom. A pomegranate clay mask you egg me

into slathering on, saying, I could get into Tosca if we put this on?


Our countenances fresh from sediment, moisturized palm-in-palm, the soprano pleading for

mercy I wish for you to sit with me here, there, wherever, anytime, at all-times.


Cereal boxes, sour milk, uncapped orange juice, coffee splotches, leftover take-out on pink

marble counters, plates soaking in wet piles in the sink - what pleasant disarray.


Your presence primed the make-up of myself, polished it with foundation I eschew, because it

suffocates my skin, and is a cunt to apply.


Sun kissed Sundays. Mondays collected in a drawstring bag brimming with a motley of marbles.

Fridays glimmering gold in amiable gangstas mouths. Wicked weekends.


Days disappear as the sun does in a peach and orange sunset enveloping a city built of buildings

and a population awakened by dreams you need sedatives for.



Then Tuesday arrived and attired in couture suitable for the funeral of a family member you strut

out the door, a poof of smoke billowing from your vape, without a word or a wave.


Your burgundy lipstick stained my ceramic coffee mug and cannot be dishwashed out or

scrubbed off with bleach.


It lives in the blue hutch accompanied by former cracked crockery, fractured goblets, and the

amputated champagne flutes I can’t dismember from memory.

Image by Lucia Macedo

Kathylynne loves writing and can't get enough of it.  With a background in screenwriting, and a foreground in fiction, she has just begun to be published, and is smiling, stoked about it.  Originally from Australia, she now lives in Los Angeles, and is hard at work on her first novel. 

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