Wordle #125

Wordle 215.pngScarlet stared down the barrel of her whiskey bottle, marveling at the ever sinking meniscus. Tipsy was a description best suited to the beginning of what was becoming another unproductive night. It was twilight, the stars were anfractuous and playful as they danced across a soot black curtain. She claimed one as the soul of a lost lover, a charming man she’d met in the sashaying years that constituted her ill-spent youth. She recalled a time when a trip to the bar was a cause for shiggles, a time when her bed was ponderous in occupancy. Time had stretched her beauty thin and worn her morality to its now customary grey. She wondered why, at 46, she had never done anything, looking down at her bottle again she sighed sharply.



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