Mulled Wine Toes

A girl with a porcelain face, void of emotion, passes me on the pavement every day. In the morning, our paths cross around number 102 on my street; on the way home, near house 17. She has perfectly straight chestnut hair that rests on her shoulders. Her jeans stretch down long thing legs without a wrinkle. They nearly hide the wooden wedges, but never the tips of her rounded shoes, coloured as if she were a ballerina who danced on a stage flooded with mulled wine.

Perhaps I see her more than most of my friends, but that is all I know.

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