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.
