Miss Margo: I wrote this a long time ago.
Pressing against the glass, I am aware that only a few transparent inches of substance keeps me from falling out into the air and then hurtling down seventy flights to the pavement. My body, I think, would make a sound like a dropped carton of eggs, only louder.
Two inches between me and the void. The space does not seem real; my depth perception and sense of scale is unreliable.
My life is very, very strange. Fantastical, really.
I pull myself away from the glass and clothe my body. My underwear, my stockings, my dress. I apply pink lipstick and brush the dark gold hair. I am a whirring engine, passing through the veil–different lives, different roles. You only get to see a piece of me.