She is tall and lanky
and struts past me
as I sit on a bench
outside of a busy Walgreen's.
I call out to her;
she vaguely remembers me
from a meeting
six months ago.
We begin to talk.
"I've relapsed," she says.
She has a brown bag full of wine
on her thin, white lap.
We talk some more
about meetings
and her new job
and a car payment that is due.
After awhile,
there is nothing left to say.
She excuses herself
and I watch her walk away,
one towering beauty
stumbling towards the void.
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