No Room For Tears

After ordering the stone, gold letters on granite, she would sit by the window and watch the sun roll along the fields of golden canola and newly cut hay. The fragrance of lush pastures and those hopeful shades of green, forever changing, never satisfied and unaware of their superiority to the Big Smoke. She would never, even under different circumstances, return to the streetlights. She wondered how long she had, weeks or only days, to admire this almost terrifying beauty. And would she see another rain shower, and breathe, afterward the freshly laundered air and the cold steam rising off the foothills. They had hinted at about six. Weeks to put to good use. And the young intern had, to her great embarrassment, handed her a megapack of highest potency and expensive looking food supplements. As if it mattered in what condition she would meet HIM, her maker, who didn't think enough of her to let her stick around past the age of forty-two. She reached for another Camel, no filter, lit it with her gold-plated Zippo, and poured a big slug of Jack. No ice. 'Jack would like it here', she said. Mud in your eyes. No room for tears.