She staggers aimlessly, with undirected purpose. Caught up in the gravitational pull of passing men and the blur of alcohol, she drapes herself on anything that can steady her. Who knows if she wants to? It seems like she must.
The smir has reduced the wild tangle she wore on her head to a sodden mop, the attitude of which matches her eyes. Standing in a doorway, out of the rain, cigarette in hand and dress billowing slightly, she wouldn't look out of place on the streets of 19th century New Orleans. A fading Southern Belle with none of the poetry. Perhaps it was just her rouge.
Her hands cup her elbows and her shoulders try to shield her ears from the breeze, knees chatter and jaw clenches. People are looking at her - they know she's past it.
One of the saddest sights I've ever seen; I kissed her anyway.