Uncertain kindness
The second day of the second month of 2000.. Croched on the uninviting bleak, harsh plateform of Charing cross station, spliting a soggle ciggerete
weakth a shivering boyfirend. This Friday night is a commune for the drunk and hopeless, and this time, we are not quite the most intoxicated; by comparison we are looking quite good. Misplaced, paranoid tourists don't even look —occasionally they ask for direction. We begin spreading our cold ,wore down limbs all over the cold floor, watching stumbling silhouettes deal with the train doors.
I peered down at my view we had just under 2 hours to kill. I start to grow angry at people with coats. I felt so extermely cold and miserable.
Their she was! She dragged herself down the plateform with the last of her last breaths on this world. Her light blue sweatpants are almost worn through , and her feet are buried into city stained slippers. She cleared areas of the station just by walking through them. She limped as she walked, not like out of pain , but just because she was in too much pain to stop.. If I had not known betterI could have swared she was a ghost.. I looked at those glass eyes and contmplating what got her to such a shitty situation ; that I cna hardly bear to move , and all I'm doing is waiting for the last tain home.
She slowely brought out her pursed, weak hand.
I ook though my purse but we have nothing but lint.
The month of the sation swallows her racked, miserable frame.
I move arounf and try and remove a stoen from my uncortable shoes. 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. Her boney weak hand, tired of begging, had returned.
She turned and dropped a grubby pound coin into my palm and says, " I think you need a cup of tea. It can get cold out here."