Dismissing pain with a whiplash flick of her wrist and casting it into the gutter to join a thousand other heart-raw tales. Right left, right left, her hips sway like a dirty dream and orange embers flare at her unpainted mouth. You could hang yourself off her every word and many a man has tried. The sound of her footsteps through the streets. The dark shape of the gasometers and always the smell of coal dust and a ripe canal rippling. These are the elements of her home. And she knows she will never leave.
