Bet shambled along, one flip flop ahead of the other till she reached the door, number seventeen. Another low point, again. She couldn’t seem to catch, or give herself, a break. The dim interior, after shutting the door, fit her mood, light peering in thru the crack in the blackouts, that was it, filtered gloom. He had left her in an awful state, his sudden departure, her only joy now was popping the tab on the can in the bag from the mini-mart. Tomorrow, Bet would dress and try to get her life back. But that’s tomorrow, this is today.
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"Classic"
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