She sits on a precipice. Not a figurative one but a literal one. It is not a cliff, but a side table. An orange side table. And she hates it. Since she can remember she has been glued to the precipice with a sad view of a sad kitchen. Tired melamine covers the shabby cupboards like picked scabs. Crustaceous knobs draw the eye like pimples on a blooming teen. Repulsive. The paint could be peeled off with a plastic knife, offering no more resistance than makeup off a washed up tramp.
The Precipice
The Precipice
The Precipice
She sits on a precipice. Not a figurative one but a literal one. It is not a cliff, but a side table. An orange side table. And she hates it. Since she can remember she has been glued to the precipice with a sad view of a sad kitchen. Tired melamine covers the shabby cupboards like picked scabs. Crustaceous knobs draw the eye like pimples on a blooming teen. Repulsive. The paint could be peeled off with a plastic knife, offering no more resistance than makeup off a washed up tramp.