The old Iron Gate creaks open, and I step inside. It’s very small, shady, populated by an odd assortment of tombs and headstones, crumbling, over-grown by moss. The transvestite is wearing a pink mini-skirt and polka-dotted blouse. She has large hands and arms and defined calves, face like a cinderblock painted flesh, with red lipstick-lips and enough eyes shadow to shade two park-benches on a hot summer day.
She breezes through the necropolis and disappears somewhere within the trees.
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