“You know you’ve had it when the only looks you get are from other middle-aged women,” thought Constance bitterly. What is it with this constant craving for instant intimacy, that just because you are a certain age you are automatically lumped in with them, for god’s sake. Just because she was born before the moon walk didn’t mean she had an instant bond with every old broad in elastic waist pants and a bad perm. She wasn’t like that, she didn’t look old, would never grow old gracefully. If she wanted to look at an old broad she would look in the goddamned mirror.
“Can’t make eye contact these days anymore,” thought Constance. These young girls just gave her a vicious stare, all she had done was look at the girl’s tattoos. Really in her day the only people that got tattoos where convicts and prostitutes and sailors. Now they were a fashion statement.
Legs astride in worn down boots
she stands at the bar
buttocks sag in acid wash denim
Hair stiff with peroxide and gel
Gravity drags at eyelids and jowls.
Double D’s bulge out of her T-shirt with its flaking Disco Sucks decal
Her bleary gaze lands on me
speaks of too many stained sweaty sheets
musty hotel rooms overflowing ashtrays empty 40’s roach clips
glitter greasepaint uppers downers chasers
manhandled bruised knocked about knocked up
but she still packs a wallop to knock me on my ass,
“‘cus if I wanted to look at another old broad,” she snarls,
“I would look in the goddamned mirror. “