W

     Wendy                 

Woman

Thin, severe — what a writer might call ascetic — her aunt seemed her antithesis. She wore navy, grey or black. Maybe that heavy material is serge. Iron legs descend into black, button-hook witch boots. She drinks sweet, dark, bloody fluids in small glasses. But she’s the one who said, "Why not?" and "There’s no other for him, no other for you." She handed her a delicate crystal thimble of sticky maroon. "Go. Show him he can have you."