Filthy Postcard #7 -- "I say Bye-Bye."
And then she walked out of his life—cheaper than buying a bonesaw. Thumbed a ride past the edge of town with an alcoholic soccer mom named Patrice, jumped off at a stub of a gas station along the highway. Had to get a key for the restroom, where she chopped at her hair with a pair of plastic safety scissors, cussing all the way. Bastard. Leaned over the cast-iron half-sink and assembled her new face out of makeup from her bag—she'd dump it on the way out in favour of a white leather clutch. Hitch her way to the border before dark. She puckered up for her reflection; purple lipstick didn't say "on the lam," did it?