The woman is wearing jewels and a smile. She's a woman now or at least she's pretty sure it really depends on the day. History trails behind her, like all the mahogany hair that isn't there anymore, but was his favorite part. History said the measure of a woman lies in the worth of her hips the twist of her lips, or so they said. She sees peridot out of the corner of her eyes, in shadows and in handsome faceless strangers. And she figures she's a woman now; the way she sees her fingers long and white, gentle lines drawn on strangers arms familiar corners a warm jaw. In memory. In the dark.
In the dark, she nibbles her fingertips and cherishes the sensation of not quite being a proper lady. A woman, yes, but in this empty bed but in her mussed up head with her nibbled, lonely fingertips not a lady. She closes her eyes and with a deep breath she imagines space. She imagines her body filled with space, her 24 ribs pulled back like the bows of 24 warriors, two for each month of a visceral, joyous battle, though she's not sure she's a warrior anymore. Not quite the girl she was with a heavy shield and a blade of cheery cynicism she treated as friend and lover both. Not a warrior girl, not anymore, but a woman full of space, and a woman playing host to the passing of time.