Her hair was three shades of grey, maybe four, five or six, but the dullness of the morning made them silver. The bench she sat on was dark chocolate brown, isolated and park-like and out of place on the street corner, just beneath the traffic lights declaring red-amber-green according to some mysterious algorithm. She wore a dark coat, or cloak, folded around her like hours past midnight, and a soft handbag of purple and white flowers.
A testimony of loneliness, or of waiting for time. We turned the corner and she whisked out of sight, gone forever from the side-mirror.
Posted by sniffles at March 31, 2002 06:54 PM