ybsmaR belaC
Jul 24, 2017 · 1 min read

No critique this time, you’re writing too well, but a little story for ya. I was living downtown on the second floor of a century old building and I would frequently smoke a cig while standing in the back doorway on that high floor, invisible to most all down on the ground. Once, it was midday on the weekend and it was raining lightly and I saw a middle aged heavy woman walking briskly away from me, across the grass of a small business lot with some new plastic bags of groceries in one hand. Then she stopped and stood straight up, staring off into nothing. She snapped her torso horizontal and jammed the pointer and middle fingers of her free hand down her throat hard a few times until she vomited. Whap, her torso was back vertical, she shook off her vomited upon hand and then continued on with her full forceful strides.

I must have stood there for a full ten minutes trying to figure out if I had just seen what I had seen and if I had, just what the hell had been going on with her.

What stayed with me was how she never looked about herself, she never even looked at her vomit coated hand. She kept looking forward. And her actions were so precise, deliberate and seemingly practiced that it added to the surreal nature of the scene.

    ybsmaR belaC

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    This is where the words go to describe ones ego and/or id. or Link to Stories/Posts https://medium.com/@ramsbergenheighmer/my-collection-of-stories-6e04cca12ff

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