She’s on the school bus. She crouches low in back. The driver doesn’t see her. She’ll stay here all night. It’s warmer than at home.
I adjusted the focus on the projector and directed the beam at her. A photo of someone else’s smile lit up on the black of her burqa.
Turned out the drunk who hollered “$20 to blow this” was referring to his dashboard breathalyzer. Didn’t immediately lower my mace, though.
The piano was solace for her pain. She was too dark to pass, suspect to those she wanted to fool. Finale. She stood to applause, and wept.
A glance inside the purse; I’ve robbed the wrong woman. He won’t risk exposure. Why carry those photographs? I’ll be dead or rich by noon.
Two stories up, three from the top, she tried to peck out a life for herself one character at a time. Her typewriter would be her freedom.