She was just the sort of person my mother would have disapproved of. Smoking, a cigarette in her mouth as she smiled with obvious enjoyment. A tattoo circling her wrist, another snaking its way up her arm. And there was another, on her shoulder
And she's so thin. She's probably anorexic as well.
I stared at her. It was not a friendly look. Almost as though she felt my animosity, radiating from every part of my body, she turned to face me. "You're wrong," she said. "You're wrong about me. Let me tell you my story."