thirty–seven

It was then that I saw Justine walk past the window of the café. I ran out into the wet street, peering through the affronted crowds around me. She was walking about a hundred yards down the street, her green dress and gold hair conspicuous amongst the greyness of other women. She was moving slowly and I caught up with her quickly, tapping her shoulder as she had once tapped mine.

A face turned to look at me of horrific disfigurement. The skin had been so badly burned that any structure to the face was unrecognizable. The eyes were foamy white cataracts. The skin was a lurid red mass of scarred tissue. I quickly turned away, murmuring my apologies, whispering a case of mistaken identity. But as I walked away I felt secretly pleased at the strange woman’s injury. It was her punishment for not being Justine, for making me think that she was.