by Lori R. Lopez

The mirror never lied, showing every pockmark and crease, gaping pore; the purple rings beneath eyes.  Netta wore signs of age like combat medals, proud of all she survived.

There were many near misses, triumphing over death, the Reaper’s blade; weathering disease, violence, accidents.  She would overcome this, a man stepping out of shadows from a Ladies Room stall.

Metal gleamed by his side.  The mirror revealed him, and betrayed her fear as widening orbs met narrowed eyes.  “Take it.”

He ignored the purse on the counter.  Steel glinted then plunged repeatedly.  The killer took what he came for.

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