Her fingers shook as she pulled up her dress.
Nail polish,
A ninety-nine cent ‘Reckless Red’,
Provided startling contrast to
Her deathly pale skin
Covered with gooseflesh.

“I’m not sure,”
She whispered,
Her voice hardly audible to the man
Standing above her.
Her thumb drew circles over a patch of unmarked,
Smooth skin.
She added a little pressure,
Giving color.
It didn’t take much to feel her bone.
She was such a delicate woman,
No, child,
And her skin was paper-thin,
Her body free of fat.

A new set of fingers joined hers.
His touch sure and gentle,
Obviously aware of her nerves,
Trying somehow to reassure her
And succeeding.
He had closely clipped nails,
Filed with tender care
Into a smooth curve.  

Letting go of conscious thought,
She allowed her body to relax into the chair.
Intense, focused lighting caused sweat to bead on her skin,
Her body sticking to the fake leather.
Soon her voice erased all further nerves
As she trusted the stranger with her life story,
Which he sketched onto her skin,
Adding his own take of ‘The End’.

Her fingers shook as she traced her journey.
Nail polish,
A ninety-nine cent ‘Reckless Red,’
Complemented the inked stars
Which said more than words ever could
About what she overcame.