From the darkness of her life, she entered, and into the night, she returned, stumbling half-drunk in her tragic shoes, Grey Goose and tonics on her breath. However, when sober, even the somewhat disinterested found attractive—cute, vivacious, at the bar giggling in her early 40s the same as a teenager, back when her friends called her Rio, after the laughter at the opening of what was actually from another Duran Duran song. Unfortunately, though shaped by a corset, she carried weight from being needled with steroids for several slipped vertebrae, and the vodka left her wobbling, and the aforementioned shoes: roped high-heeled sandal wedges made navigation precarious.
The breeze caught her hair, brutally dyed black shoulder-length calligraphic curls greased to a shine with her hair butterflying across her freckled face, over the entire lips, sensuous, and her sparkling emerald eyes as she moved over the gravel to her car.
Suddenly the cell phone rings. Instinctively Rio reaches into her bag to grasp it, hoping it is her new boyfriend.
As she pulls out the phone, Rio loses her balance and stumbles, falling heavily and sprawls on the gravel parking lot.
The firstborn daughter had another anxiety attack, and her voice, speaking manically, breathlessly through the speaker, chattering rapid-fire broken sentences on the phone. Several feet away, Rio was groaning, her black, red rose dress twenty bucks from Target torn at the seams, ankles enflamed in dirt-stained wedges, the red flower attachments partially ripped, with gravel embedded in her left knee.
She wished she had never married the girl’s father.
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