She smiles, and I see the bags under her eyes. She has beautiful auburn hair. It shines, almost like a bright flame in the afternoon sun. It entrances me as it flows with the wind. I know she’s been crying. I can see it in the white of her eyes.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I’m okay.”
I wonder how many times she’d said that to the people in her life who had screwed her over one way or another.