Copyright 2012 by Leah Cutter
This version published by Knotted Road Press
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I would have killed for a good facial.
Not that I needed it. No, amica. As a ghost, my face never changed, not since I died.
I missed the pampering, though. The oils scented with mint and orange, the lime masks and the exacting senorita who, like an artist—a sculptor—made such perfection of my eyebrows.
I couldn't change my clothes or my jewelry. It was always the same white dress, the same diamond earrings, the same heels that no longer pinched my toes or hurt my back. Surprisingly, that didn't bother me, no, not as much as never getting another of Tess' special mani-pedis, with real milk, avocado, and almond butter. It was like walking through a vegetable buffet, but she performed miracles with my skin.