Bernie the bartender is always the first one to see her. Actually, she’d be the one who’d call his attention. While wiping the bar or serving another customer, he’d suddenly feel this fingernail tap him on the shoulder. He’d smell her perfume first before he’d look and know it was her.
She’d just be there, seated on one of the bar stools in her jacket. Her jacket that had the color of dried rose petals. Or was it more like the color of dried blood?
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