Lovers in the cold
Parked on the dank drippy, harsh plateform of Kings Cross, deviding up a metho cigerette with her lovers. This Friday early morning is full of rejected drunks, and this time, we are not the most intoxicated; nor are we the the worst smelling. Nervous, paranoid tourists try and pertend we don't exist —a few want to know where to find the night bus. I start spreading our quivering ,tired bodies all over the stone platefrom, watching stumbling silhouettes deal with the ticket barrier.
Thsi is when I first saw her! She worked her way out of the waiting room with the final of her will-power. Her baby blue
sweatpants has seen better days , and her feet are wedged into city stained wellies. Her hair was so wispy it remined me of the damiblions we used to blow when we were children.. They are eyes dazed with the work it takes to stay warm, and weary of the excess of privileged people.. They are eyes dazed with the work it takes to stay warm, and weary of the excess of privileged people.. I'm looking at her withered form and contmplating what got her to such a shitty situation ; that I am so wweak to be feeling this way , and all I am doing is waiting for the last tain home.
She produced her pursed, shaking palm.
We turn out our pockets but we have nothing she woudl want.
The month of the sation eats up her ragged, dejected shadow.
I sign and look around the station for some lkind of amusement. My body convusrse, almost like it is beggin me to find warth.. I stare for a while envoisuly at the couple takig up the only bench.
Then the beggar woman returns. A boney hand, tired of begging, had done the whole rounds.
She turned and dropped a grubby pound coin into my hand and says, " I think you need a cup of tea. It can get cold out here."
Darkeness gulps her up once again before we had a change to say thank you .