Conversation · Paledriver

"Wait, what's so bad about the Fifties?"

"The men have small jaws and everything is made out of plastic. Why do you need plastic?" she scoffs. "When you can make the world out of amber?"

"I was actually hoping you could tell me that."

"Are you alright, ma'am? You were out."

"Grandma?"

Nothing. Her smile just keeps widening; her hair is grey like lead.

No. This one is a monster in disguise.

Snap your fingers twice.

"Excuse me, ma'am, I'd like to ask some questions."

No response. Wherever this woman is, your words fail to reach her.

Snap your fingers in front of her face.

"Nothing to do here." [Leave.]

The small wrinkled woman does not greet you. She nods along to something on her radio. A photograph is clutched in her hands and there is a warm smile on her face.

The photo -- an ambrotype from the turn of the century. As golden as her smile.

It's the warmth of a winter night's fire. Maybe she could give you comfort and shelter? Some cigarettes and food money? Maybe she's your...

It's time to face yourself, mano y mano. The next time you find yourself alone before a mirror. That's where this will end...