Fading Red

The lipstick, half-done.

One side a perfect slash of matte plum,

the other, a raw, uneven lip.

And then the sound.

First, a whine, thin and sharp,

like a dog caught in something metal

three blocks over. Or five.

It cut right through the flimsy plaster,

through the thrum of my own pulse.

My hand froze, brush suspended.

Just for a second, a flicker, I thought

of blood, of cold asphalt, of the sudden

stop.

And then it started to fade,

drawn out, a long, sighing breath

moving further, down the boulevard,

leaving only the hum of the cheap fridge

and my own face, lopsided, in the glass.