The Lady Called Time by Susan Soucy, Australia

She is called Time. Time steps out, followed by the light from her room, through the door, through every window, and the world is morning with the light, the daisies in Time's hair, beautiful. Time is envied like the daisies, smelled like daises, her stockings fit her legs like skin without cat's fur, her white skirt match her white eyeshadows, light blonde hair, light nail polish with a finish like eyes in tears. Time flirts with men, flirts with boys, babies in blue diapers, too happy she does not know which is smile and which is laughter, smokes like sky blowing clouds away, smokes like ladies by the lampposts, like women in distress, like a nurse whose patient had just died. Time speaks of herself, thinks of herself, lets people drown in her stories of fame, tales of fortune, legends of beauty and being loved, how she thinks every man's stare is hers, not the wife's, nor the lover's, how during the day, she makes love to someone's husband, sleeps with somebody's father, but wakes up alone, the people around her still gathered like the world would turn without them. Time goes home, drags herself home, looks up the sky, fixes her stare at the stars, suddenly her clothes are gray, dusked by the moon, turning darker as she walks, her feet through the doorway, her hands searching for the door, touching the knob, opening herself, her body, the night with its darkness stepping in, deep into the room, that used to be morning. Time closes the door, shuts herself, finds herself a virgin, so suddenly alone.