A Crash

She'd fiddled with her face, applied a half a pound of beige foundation from La Maison de Charleroi, two hefty blasts of bland déodorant, smothered two nipples with a serving of Chanel, numéro cinq, removed the bags of ice beneath the mammaries, which now stood firm, lit candles made of real wax of bees, poured into crystals a beloved Beaujolais. There was a flash of news from ARD, a plane had crashed into the river Somme, windshear had crashed her plans and cut the promise of a life to silly shreds.