Lady of Miami

She had to be at least fifty. Her green silk nightgown caught the light as she shuffled between the two lines of cars stopped at the traffic light. She leaned to one side as she walked; maybe because she was still slightly drugged; maybe to say, "I'm so tired, please help me"; maybe to look vulnerable.  Her emaciated body looked more like that of a young teenage girl's, though her face belied the lines of the long years of a very difficult life. Her pixie-short bottle blond hair was dirty, stiff, and lifeless in the breeze. Her nightgown's shoulder straps had fallen off her shoulders, and whether in unconsciousness or by design she left them where they fell. As she walked she cradled a large 7-Eleven cup against her shoulder, as one would cradle a baby, her cheek resting on the rim. She briefly met the eyes of each driver as she made her way down the lane, hesitatingly, not sure if she would meet judgement or interest. One driver rolled down a window to drop some money into her cup, and she lingered a moment afterward to determine what  kind of interest she had generated. Simply charity, this time.

The traffic light turned green and the drivers passed by the woman, careful not to hit her, careful to avoid meeting her eyes. Another round of cars was gone, and the woman stayed for the next set that might bring providence. And she was forgotten by all who saw her.

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