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May 6, 2011
She removes the lid from the paper cup, its rim when exposed revealing brown stains and gooey coral lipstick, the sixth time in the 10 minutes I've been waiting for the bus, peers inside, and brings the cup to her naked lips. Just short of tasting it, she says to the contents, as if continuing a conversation, "Nope. Still piss," and sighs. She holds a plastic shaker of McCormick's paprika to her nose and inhales what would amount to a "line", looks over her shoulder and shouts, "Fuck I love the smell of cinnamon, Bernard!" No one is behind her.