Wounded Doesn't Mean Killed

She's reflected in the shop's windows and looks, looks, looks at herself.

She's again dressed inappropriately for the weather. She's unhappy with her hair again. She thinks she could tighten her skin a little, and her eyes would look more expressive.

She freezes in the wind, choosing a more comfortable place for an early breakfast.

She's confused and a little out of context in this world. What's wrong with that? Predators also get wounded.

She flips through the menu with chilled fingers and thinks, "Steak. Medium rare steak and honey whiskey. A little bit."

The waiter waits patiently. He's young, sweet, sleepy, and indifferent to her problems. Finally, she looks up at him, smiles charmingly and says, "Spinach salad and double espresso, please."

Six in the morning. Wounded doesn't mean killed.