She sat alone, cigarette in hand. Her gaze fell somewhere past her tattered brogues and the cigarette ends that littered the floor around her. Poised but frowning, she took a long drag and exhaled a stream of grey smoke. It danced in front of her but her eyes remained fixed on the concrete. She looked deep in thought, pre-occupied even. I couldn't help but wonder how she could concentrate with her hair piled so high on her head. It was tangled and scraped into a messy bun, letting a few loose strands fall across her cheek. Her face was hidden beneath a mask of make-up black Kohl eye-liner framed her eyes and her painted lips left a print of the cigarette she was finishing. It was only until she began to get up that I noticed the paint flecked across her forearm and wrist. Suddenly her scattered appearance fell into place with the stereotype of an art student. She pushed herself up with ease and stamped out the remains of her cigarette.
She looked out of place, in a world of her own. I found myself thinking back to a conversation I’d had during the week about how you thought you’d react if the sun didn't rise again tomorrow. I couldn't stop myself from wondering how she would react. Would she panic and ring loved ones? Stay in bed and take opportunity to dream longer? Or would she light a candle and paint in fear and fury? I hoped the latter.