I imagine her name is Lavender,
the woman behind the counter of the Yankee Candle.
Her face is creased with the years she's lived,
her hair clutches desperately to her head in blonde tendrils.
She's not an ugly woman,
in fact, I'm sure she was once beautiful,
the kind of beautiful that men clawed each other's eyes out for.
She probably gave them a red-lipped smirk,
complained about their advances, but secretly loved it.
She probably had trouble holding on to female friends.
Now, she is an echo of that woman.
Still beautiful, but existing in her fading forties.
Small frame, careful makeup.
I wonder why it makes me so sad to look at her.