She sat on the green plastic bench, watching buses splash past, and eating cold curry with a chip shop fork. Her eyes moved left to right, right to left, her hands shivered as the fork was filled, lifted, emptied, and filled again.
Black hair and black skirt whipped about her in the wake of the number 28 bus. She ignored them, kept picking at her curry. Rain stormed down onto her bare shoulders, her arms, the ankles exposed by the wayward skirt, but still she would not stir for it. Perhaps she didn’t even notice.
She sheltered her cold curry under the wide red brim of her hat. Rain rushed down her back, but her curry at least was dry. Perhaps that was all she cared about.
Fill, lift, eat, repeat.