Perfect

This bashful smile, this batted eye. This was how she hooked them on. Freckled skin and thin hips, always underexposed. Always naked.
She tapped her foot to Fleet Foxes, singing off key on the train. Her eyes looked closed as they tilted downwards to read a Kurt Vonnegut masterpiece.
The train stopped and she got off shakily, still in the daze of nonrecognition. Her awkwardly thin legs wobbled in combat boots, a sure sign that her subconscious would not let this escape her. A sure sign that she was indeed fretting.
Her hair was only dry-shampooed, the sweat from last night’s show eager to shine through. Where she was going, they would not care. They were all so far gone.
Walking down the street with nobody but her well-known enemy Hangover, Janice felt like a ghost of herself. It may be more accurate to use the word “skeleton.”
People often describe the miserable as being “broken.” In that case, she was shattered. She breathed in a sigh, her breath hitching uncomfortable, the bridge of her nose burning in a way that was not familiar to her.
Martins did not cry, Martins did not cry, Martins do not cry.
Her bones looked fragile, the skin stretched taut against sharp corners- architecture built to fall.
Throwing her cigarette down, she felt strange. Her tiny foot smashed down on the fag, twisting to burn it out. She stared at the shitty apartment that hadn’t been kept up in well, ever, and knocked lightly on the door.
“Neil,” she croaked. Martins did cry. He thoughtlessly enveloped her in his lanky arms. The same lanky, freckled arms that locked into Janice’s shoulders. The same bolsterless structure on the verge of crumbling.
“Jeremy’s gone,” she whispered, her voice a foreign howl. As if Neil had not known. As if this wasn’t clear as day. “I know, baby, I know,” he hushed her, rubbing her back soothingly.
Boy troubles were easy for a big brother to deal with. A broken heart, a broken nose. Janice’s grief did not have a remedy. This wasn’t another break-up, another long-distance. The man she was sure she would I-do was dead as dirt.
Her everything was sand swirls, ‘dust in the wind.’ A heavy and audible sob broke through her chapped lips, wracking her whole body the way lightning does the sky.
“He’s not... coming back,” she shook her head in disbelief at her own words. The shakes started calm, almost dazed, and turned tantrum-like. “He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone!” a seemingly callow statement was more articulate than an instruction manual. That was what she felt. She felt his absence.