Stations misfits
Positioned on the cold damp, drippy steps of Euston Station, sharing a metho cigerette with a boyfriend. This Saturday night is infested with drunks, and for the first time, we are not quite the worst off; we do not smell the worst. Late-night, parenoid tourists don't even stare —occasionally they ask for direction. We spreading our cold ,damp limbs all over the cold floor, passing the times watching stumbling people battel with the ticket barrier.
Their she was! She worked her way over to us with the final of her enegry. Her light blue sweatpants are patch ups , and her feet are ratteling around in wellies. Her large coat seemed to be full of all of her worldly possions.. She cleared areas of the station just by walking through them. One of her eyes seemed to have leak and it was clear that she was nearly blind.. I stared at those glass eyes and imagine all the thinking she must have been through ; that I am to frozen to move , and all I am doing is waiting for the train to start up again.
She slowely brought out her decrept, trembling palm.
We check ourselfs but their is no change.
As she moved away the staton seemed to engrossed her bedevilled, miserable silhouette.
I search in my pocket for my lighter. We are pushing reluctant time forward as it digs its heels in at the dusty smells and sounds of old stories, at the sucking of smoke, at our involuntary shivers.. My body convusrse, almost like it is beggin me to find warth.
Then suddley the beggar tlady reappears.. A boney hand, tremberling with old age, had come back.
She put a pund fifty Inot my lap and says, " get something warm in ya. It can get cold out here."
The darkness gulps her up once more without a word I quitely thnaked her .