She was walking towards the door. Nothing but the sound of her footsteps, on the hallway of her building, was disturbing the bliss of the morning. She turned the key into the lock and a door screak later, she was inside. Her clothes were all over the place; on the table, on the floor, on the stereo and even on the coffee pot she forgot to put into the kitchen sink last night. She was alone. What a feeling! Such a sweet taste of solitude mixed with the fear that this would be enough for the rest of her pathetic life. And why not? She deserved it; she has always enjoyed her company and never longed for some mortal soul to breathe besides her. That freaked her out.
She contemplated the night before and the night before that. It was always the same. She would go to this god forsaken place and pretend to dance and raise the eyebrows of filthy men just for fun. Then a shower later she would feel clean enough to go home and sleep off the greasy hands and slimy eyes that touched her and watched her every night. She would sit and cry for hours not knowing why and how to stop. But that was one of her biggest talents: crying. She would forge these beautiful, crystal clear tears and let them go with the most delicate blink you have ever seen. You could almost hear the sound of the tear touching a hard surface and dying while transforming into a small puddle. She wanted to stop. She needed to stop.