Lonely, dank plateform
Croched on the dreary lonely, dank plateform of Paddington station, spliting a benson and hedge cigerette with a shivering boyfirend. This Saturday night is a commune for the drunk and hopeless, and for the first time, we are not quite the drunkest; nor are we the the worst smelling. Anxious, distrubed tourists try to ignore us —a few want to know where to find the night bus. We start spreading our cold ,tired bodies alll other the sold floor, amusing ourself with the stumbling silhouettes deal with the train doors.
Thsi is when I first saw her! She shuffles down the plateform with the last of her will-power. Her faded pink sweatpants are almost worn through , and her feet are wedged into city stained bunny slippers. On her face you could see the lines that had been worn out by tears.. Her hair was so wispy it remined me of the damiblions we used to blow when we were children.. On her face you could see the lines that had been worn out by tears.. I looked at her darken visiage and contmplating what got her to such a shitty situation ; that I was complain about being cold for two hours , and all I'm doing is waiting for the next train.
She slowely brought out her wrinkled, pursed mit.
I looked in my purse but found nothing.
The darkeness of the architecture absorbed her tormented, sad shadow.
I sign and look around the station for some lkind of amusement. I start to even the sleeping beggar at least they feel at home.. 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.
Then I she the old lady again.. A wrinkled hand, heavy with pleading, had seeked us down.
She turned and dropped a grubby pound coin Inot my lap and says, " buy yourself a cuppa. God bless you."
The station gulps her up once more without a word I quitely thnaked her .