Apples May Crumble
Our woman was sitting on the floor of her apartment in Paris.
She had had one of these weeks—nothing had gone how it was supposed to. Everything she had tried, big and small: failures. Her assistant had given her notice. She had fired someone she loved, and been rejected by something she’d hoped for.
Her washer had broke down and she had lost her favorite lipstick.
She’d caught a glimpse of her jawline in a mirror and had done a double take. Was this going to be her now? Was the slight laxity about to become a permanent feature on her face?
Why was everything crumbling? She asked herself as she took a sip of her cocktail.
