She Is a Crone

She’s a crone, I think, judging her dour disposition and prissy ways. Discover by accident she is twelve years my junior! Her face is pasty withered; worn, super freckled Her neck not unlike the wrinkles of an elephant’s legs How old is she? I query again, for I disbelieve Anyone could look this hideous at this particular age. I looked fantastic at that age; I can tell you. Super fantastic, maybe even quad-super-fantastic. I cannot take my eyes off her neck; does she not have a scarf? If my neck looked half that bad, I would wear a thick black dog collar. Her laugh is irritatingly baby-like, a silly chime-like birdsong laugh. Surly she could have learned a better laugh by this age. What’s going on? My husband asks, watching me watch her. She is only fifty-five I tell him. So? He does not get it, being a man. So look at her. He wisely wanders away. That night I walked by the mirror still scoffing. The mirror called me back. I looked at my neck and reached for a dog collar. That was not enough, so I put on my executioner’s hood also.