That Little Zing
Piper stared at the wall of glass, unable to see the plane on the tarmac through the whirling, swirl of snow. Instead, her own reflection gazed back at her; coppery curls were threatening to escape the careless twist at the back of her head, the normally creamy complexion had been replaced by a sickly, pale undertone, and there were dark circles underneath her red-rimmed eyes, which were the color of soft moss. She barely recognized this woman. “Damn blizzard! God, I hate this place,” she...
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