Everyone Else Is Doing It

Ladies and Gentlemen! Below you'll find the pile of poo I wrote at the writing marathon. I am posting her for your perusal because, well, because everyone else who was in my group is doing it, and I don't want to be left out. You all know what a conformist I am. (I don't know if I'll ever finish it, but hey! Starting it is half the battle.)

Massages By Appointment

She was not an attractive woman. Her hair sat fastened in a tight bun at the back of her head, pulling the skin around her temples and forehead tight, giving her the look of an old oriental in a state of shocked disapproval.

She said her name was Lynette, but the cracked, red patches on her hands belonged more to an Olga, or perhaps even a Lupe. I didn't want her to touch me with those hands, those lying hands that looked like they had never touched or caressed, but only scrubbed and kneaded.

Her clothes hung from her like loose leafs of elephant skin. To say she was a scarecrow would be too generous. There was only bone and skin. Skin that sagged and wobbled and dangled, its translucence alive, yet stagnant, faded from what may once have been the delicate, creamy color of slowly churned buttermilk.