young again?
It wouldn’t hurt just to try it . . . would it?
Carefully, she gripped the little cork between her finger and thumb and pulled. There was a tiny popping sound. She raised the vial to her nose and inhaled, tentatively at first, then deeply.
“Smells of cloves,” she said to herself. That surprised her. It probably was cloves, although she’d never seen spices sold in such tiny bottles. Whatever it was, it smelled edible. She took one more glance up the street, one more sniff, then downed it in one go.
She regretted it immediately.
The initial sensation was of molten metal splashing against the insides of her throat. She would have spat the liquid back out, but she had knocked it back so hard it had bypassed her mouth altogether.
White sparks danced before her eyes, followed by an excruciating pain in her temples. Her face felt red hot for several moments, then cooled just as quickly. With her head down, she began taking deep breaths until the pain had passed. The aftertaste was electric: a heady mix of cod liver oil, red wine and salt.
Something happened, she told herself. I don’t know what, but something just happened to my face.
Her heart beating wildly, she reached up and touched her cheeks, her nose, her chin. But she could still feel the same wrinkles, the same crow’s feet, the same loose skin beneath her jaw.
She turned and studied her reflection in the glass of the shelter. It was still the same old Wendy Hutchison staring back, the same ruined face. She looked at the empty glass vial in her hand and then, with a bitter laugh, tossed it onto the pavement.
She was caught in the sudden glare of headlights. In all the confusion, she hadn’t seen the bus coming up Main Street. She reached out and flagged it down.
The driver, a regular face on the 10:15, pulled up and opened the doors. She didn’t like him. He was a miserable sod who hardly even looked at her as he took her money.
“Single to Tyrone Road,” she said, rifling through her purse.
There was no response, no issuing of a ticket, nothing. She looked up at him. The burly driver was staring at her with a wide, toothy grin on his face.
“Well hello, beautiful,” he said.
She assumed he was being sarcastic, and felt heat rise in her cheeks once more. “Single, please,” she repeated. “Tyrone Road.”
“I’ve not seen you before,” he said, completely ignoring her second request.
She looked at him sidelong. “What are you talking about? I get this bus six nights a week.”
He shook his bullet-shaped head emphatically. “Believe me, honey, if I’d seen an angel like you on my bus, I’d remember it.”
Wendy couldn’t think what to say next. She suddenly felt a dozen pairs of eyes boring into her. She glanced up the length of the bus and found that the passengers were all men of varying ages, and they were all staring at her. She turned back to the driver. He fluttered his eyelids.
“My ticket,” she said.
He shook his head again. “Baby,” he said, “you don’t need no ticket. A girl as pretty as you can ride for free.” He jerked a fat thumb over his shoulder.
“Excuse me, are you being sarcastic?”
The driver looked back at her blankly as if he hadn’t understood the question.
She looked at her reflection again in the glass behind the driver’s seat. Same old Wendy Hutchison, forty-seven, spinster for life. Same old scar.
She turned back to the driver. “Excuse me, how old would you say I am?”
The dreamy look on his face vanished and deadly panic flashed in his eyes. “Hey, sweetheart, I wasn’t being pervy with you, honest—”
Wendy waved away his protest. “No, really, how old?”
The driver looked at her, his eyes roaming over her face, her neck, her shoulders, her cleavage. “Eighteen?” he said. “Nineteen, maybe?”
She stopped breathing. Her legs seemed to have filled with iced water. She desperately wanted to sit down.
“Listen, honey,” the driver said. “You take a
It wouldn’t hurt just to try it . . . would it?
Carefully, she gripped the little cork between her finger and thumb and pulled. There was a tiny popping sound. She raised the vial to her nose and inhaled, tentatively at first, then deeply.
“Smells of cloves,” she said to herself. That surprised her. It probably was cloves, although she’d never seen spices sold in such tiny bottles. Whatever it was, it smelled edible. She took one more glance up the street, one more sniff, then downed it in one go.
She regretted it immediately.
The initial sensation was of molten metal splashing against the insides of her throat. She would have spat the liquid back out, but she had knocked it back so hard it had bypassed her mouth altogether.
White sparks danced before her eyes, followed by an excruciating pain in her temples. Her face felt red hot for several moments, then cooled just as quickly. With her head down, she began taking deep breaths until the pain had passed. The aftertaste was electric: a heady mix of cod liver oil, red wine and salt.
Something happened, she told herself. I don’t know what, but something just happened to my face.
Her heart beating wildly, she reached up and touched her cheeks, her nose, her chin. But she could still feel the same wrinkles, the same crow’s feet, the same loose skin beneath her jaw.
She turned and studied her reflection in the glass of the shelter. It was still the same old Wendy Hutchison staring back, the same ruined face. She looked at the empty glass vial in her hand and then, with a bitter laugh, tossed it onto the pavement.
She was caught in the sudden glare of headlights. In all the confusion, she hadn’t seen the bus coming up Main Street. She reached out and flagged it down.
The driver, a regular face on the 10:15, pulled up and opened the doors. She didn’t like him. He was a miserable sod who hardly even looked at her as he took her money.
“Single to Tyrone Road,” she said, rifling through her purse.
There was no response, no issuing of a ticket, nothing. She looked up at him. The burly driver was staring at her with a wide, toothy grin on his face.
“Well hello, beautiful,” he said.
She assumed he was being sarcastic, and felt heat rise in her cheeks once more. “Single, please,” she repeated. “Tyrone Road.”
“I’ve not seen you before,” he said, completely ignoring her second request.
She looked at him sidelong. “What are you talking about? I get this bus six nights a week.”
He shook his bullet-shaped head emphatically. “Believe me, honey, if I’d seen an angel like you on my bus, I’d remember it.”
Wendy couldn’t think what to say next. She suddenly felt a dozen pairs of eyes boring into her. She glanced up the length of the bus and found that the passengers were all men of varying ages, and they were all staring at her. She turned back to the driver. He fluttered his eyelids.
“My ticket,” she said.
He shook his head again. “Baby,” he said, “you don’t need no ticket. A girl as pretty as you can ride for free.” He jerked a fat thumb over his shoulder.
“Excuse me, are you being sarcastic?”
The driver looked back at her blankly as if he hadn’t understood the question.
She looked at her reflection again in the glass behind the driver’s seat. Same old Wendy Hutchison, forty-seven, spinster for life. Same old scar.
She turned back to the driver. “Excuse me, how old would you say I am?”
The dreamy look on his face vanished and deadly panic flashed in his eyes. “Hey, sweetheart, I wasn’t being pervy with you, honest—”
Wendy waved away his protest. “No, really, how old?”
The driver looked at her, his eyes roaming over her face, her neck, her shoulders, her cleavage. “Eighteen?” he said. “Nineteen, maybe?”
She stopped breathing. Her legs seemed to have filled with iced water. She desperately wanted to sit down.
“Listen, honey,” the driver said. “You take a
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