She wears a smile. She’s been told not to, but finds a way to push it through. The corners of her lips slide up, as if they are held by fingers.
She dressed up for this. Or she came from work. A light, frilly-necked blouse. Hair down and neatly dropped along the sides of her face.
Her name is MARSHALL, JENNIFER P. She was born in March. 28 years old. She requires corrective lenses.
The light slides along her face in an oblong glare, obscuring her features. What did she have for breakfast that morning? What was she doing before she came? Did she wait long?
Why did I find her, tucked under a leaf on the sidewalk, dirty and bent? Isn’t she needed somewhere?
I tuck her into my breast pocket. She’ll keep me company. I won’t need to look at her often – I’ve already memorized her features. Hair color: grey. Eye color: grey. Skin color: grey.
I smile, indulgent. And walk on.