A light was burning in a window of a small flat halfway up a byway in a bustling city. It lit night as a lightning bug flits through a room; occasional, but continuous.
A woman subsists in that tiny room; dark hair, bright indigo orbs conspicously constant, but too far apart, and a scar running down Madam’s mug, from brow to chin. A gift from an old paramour that got wary, abandoning Madam, but not without changing Madam’s soul.
It haunts, that scar.
Too many nights lying watchful, afraid it will occur again. So Madam blows off Manhattan, favoring privacy. But Madam longs for companionship. So Madam sits at a window and looks upon crowds passing by. Mostly Madam just minds folks dashing too and fro. Occasionally, Madam would talk; author situations that call for Madam to star as a human of curiosity. Still Madam hung about, afraid to go forth.
Madam succumbs a bit day by day. Madam won’t last.
Sobbing rings through Madam’s flat.