The cloud follows her, like a dogged detective, for pretty much a mile, most of the way to your bumpy blacktop of Florida Avenue. She passes heaps of trash illegally dumped regarding the relative side of the road, trailer domiciles sagging unfortunately into the sun, and abandoned cars and trucks languishing in an industry like lolling farm pets. She steps harder on the gas. She will be belated if she does not ignore every rate sign along Interstate Highway 57 going north. She had lost tabs on the full time, searching for a new way life in the ground behind her household. But she can not afford to miss a having to pay gig; She has seeds to buy, a future to plant.
An hour or so later, using weathered overalls, she pushes through the d rs of the photo that is sparkling in Chicago. Throwing off her straw hat, she drops as a seat in front of a lighted wall surface of mirrors. “OK,” she says, “transform me.”
Locks done, makeup products on, nails polished, she slips as a gold lame dress or even a snow-white wedding gown, depending on the whims for the customer. Then she takes a breath that is deep actions through a curtain as a p l of light.