She was leaning against the white stucco wall with a cigarette between her teeth.
Her long black skirt kissed the concrete as she fidgeted.
No one would ever call her innocent.
No one called her sweet.
She blew a thin cloud of smoke into the air.
It swayed in the wind and curled around her hair.
She closed her eyes and waited.
16 long years had gone by since her beginning.
If she wished hard enough, maybe another 16 would go by in a blink.

The photograph of her sits on the rickety table in her very first apartment.
A freshly burned cigarette stews in the ash tray on the table.
She smiles, looking at herself. Knowing what she thought then.
Knowing what she knows now.
She closes her eyes and waits. For another 16 years to pass her by.