the woman on the postcard

Some tiny bits of writing. Just because.

As she did every year this day in February, when winter has long since come and overstayed its welcome, Eliza, with her prized fur stole and her Birkin bag and perfectly made-up face, had found the path that led to that spot in Central Park where so many years ago her father had said his lousy goodbyes.

Yes, run on sentence. I do them a lot.

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