Written by Liz Hyman.
She had blue hair, with a green streak.
I left the store to get to the car and there I saw her, mourning life.
She was cold.
I was cold.
The tension was warm.
“Are you ok?” I asked.
“Do you have any money?” she responded.
I checked my pockets only to find 2 quarters and a receipt.
“No, I’m sorry.”
Her eyes lowered, like the head of a crane, and I continued with a sad walk.
An hour later I returned with chips she did not want.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the morse code written up and down her body.
She wanted heroin.