Head turner
The 13th of April. Croched on the bleak lonely, uninviting steps of Kings Cross, spliting a metho cigerette wretchedth a boyfriend. This Saturday early morning is a commune for the drunk and hopeless, and for once, we're not the worst off; in compariosn we are doing quie well. Lost, unnerved foreigns try and pertend we don't exist —a few get up the courage to ask for directions. We are spreading our quivering ,damp arms and legs all over the cold floor, observing stumbling people battel with the baggage comparment.
I surfed down at my watch we had nearly two hours to kill. God what I would do for some themal socks. I felt so extermely moth eaten and woeful.
Their she was! She climbed up the steps with the final of her will-power. Her red sweatpants are tinged with brown , and her feet are buried in slippers. She limped as she walked, not like out of pain , but just because she was in too much pain to stop.. Her hair was so wispy it remined me of the damiblions we used to blow when we were children.. If I had not known betterI could have swared she was a ghost.. I stared at $THOSEGLASSEYES and imagining what drove her to this point ; that I'm too cold to move , and all I am doing is killing time before I go back to my ovely soft warm bed..
Out comes her shaking, pursed mit.
We look through our bags but we have nothing she woudl want.
The overbearing statoin swallows her bedevilled, pitiful silhouette.
I search in my bag for another cigrette The second seem to drag on , forever we coul dnot see the end.. Eveythign seems to be in slow motion, the world seems to be waiting.
Then out of nowhere she returns.. A boney hand, tendling with old age, had come back.
Unexpectectetly she dropped a pund fifty into my palm and said, " get yourself a cup of tea. Merry Christmas."
Darkeness eat her up again before we had a change to say thank you .