Stale

A small woman in her 40s or—50s—?—steps out of the cold and into the bakery; her bright orange puffy jacket clings to her like a mummy bag down to her ankles, cinched around her waist with a wide black band.  

She’s paid someone to try and rewind the clock of her youth—to vacuum seal her face. It shows through the tight skin on her cheeks, large lips, and mostly in how she moves about the shop anxiously pinching and poking and squeezing the fresh buns. 

Maybe it’s the taut blonde ponytail keeping her face in place. 

Her hair runs in a curved stroke down her back—a nearly perfect cascade—but for one tiny loop of hair missed and jammed in an oval.

a smudge on the mirror; a crooked picture; a single dog ear in an abandoned book. 

She’s sprung a leak.