It wasn't the first time she'd left the house with her shirt torn half off her body, sleeves stretched all out of proportion, hair wild and unwashed, make-up askew, and it wouldn't be the last. Not ever. Her little raspberry beret was the only aspect of the Walk of Shame (which she steadfastly rejected shame for walking) that she demanded be pristine. It was less than a year old and the first thing she'd ever bought with the money that men gave to her for doing the things she wanted to do anyway. She knew what she was and it wasn't a terrible thing, no matter what the withered old prunes on the street said with their wrinkled old prune faces. The hat was perfect. It was the first time she had ever felt in control, finally. She paused a moment beside her car, looking up, barely able to contain her hands lest she reach up, touch it, reassure herself it was real and thus soil it by proxy. That was the deal she made with herself when she first bought her own freedom.
Entry into the #foxtales #9 One Paragraph Story Competition
I blame 
Yes, I have a bit of the Burroughs in me. I blame taking naked lunches.