Lourdes

Lourdes was large, a heavyset woman you might say.

She was a collection of rolling hills, sagging fruit, anxieties, insecurities and aching joints that called out into the wilderness—but she hadn’t always been that way. No, no. Years ago she had been a beauty, in fact, had been one of the most desired women in the entire city, and believe me, she took advantage of it. She had her choice of lovers, a chorus of suitors, and she was very rather indiscreet about the whole thing: she had tasted everything from fur-clad rebels who spit sorcery at the sky to rich and refined platinum-nosed moguls, the kind that felt no qualms, none at all, about eating endangered species from fine white iron plates set with semiprecious stones.

Susanna remembered when she was child, everyone in her class, everyone in her school, already knew about Lourdes’ reputation. But Lourdes just laughed and skipped on, enjoying love and enjoying lovers, enjoying fresh flesh and life and everything simple and silver under the sun.

Even now, beneath the excess fat and the crow’s feet, you could still see that beauty, still see who Lourdes had been, still see her struggling like a ghost screaming to break free from her age and anger and do it all again, enjoy her youth and beauty for a second time.