Irony pumps through her blood.

Outwardly, she is a very well put together woman.

So much so, that it seems she may have never been a girl. Maybe at most she was a little woman.

I found it comical that her bra straps were twisted under the straps of her fashionable tank top. I read into this as a translation of her emotional state, which really wasn’t an inaccurate observation.

As she spoke I noticed an odd marriage of old and new in her words. A strange kind of dialect, surely one caught between multiple languages.

And when she cried, it was only her tears asking for help. As if they weren’t sure which way was down and afraid to streak the perfect cheek.

It’s easy to see where she drowns and where her life preservers are. A pill or two here, for pain. A few cocktails, for a different kind of pain. A phone, to vent multiple pains and for discovering new ones.

It’s not that she can’t be happy mind you, it’s just that she gives so much to a far too demanding audience.

From time to time she loses her way and I get called in for the remedy. I’ve never minded, I’ve always liked playing with blocks, and trying to understand oils.

And to end the meeting, I was asked to join in a trip, though not one of adventures to uncharted places. One of saying goodbye to demons in a destination previously traveled through.

And of course, I accepted.

She never stopped trying to unwind her bra straps.

Finally, I helped her and her face went back to the smooth calm with no trace of tears ever ruining it.