“Hey, do you want an orange?” I ask.
She’s sitting on a street corner with a backpack.
Her face is marked up with whiskered scars of cosmetic or self mutilation origin. Maybe a bit of both. She’s pretty. One of the compartments on her bag is unzipped, and I see a bottle of sparkling nail polish.
She’s looks up from her phone. “Yes, please. Thank you”.
A straight-laced women passes by. Grey suit, hair up in a tight pony tail.
“She’s begging for change while she’s tweeting from her smartphone” she says, loudly.
With as much scorn and contempt as she could bear to part with.
As the woman walks away, the girl blurts out, quietly, “I just left my abuser.”
I pause. “I’m sorry that woman said that to you,” I say as I hand her an orange.
I watched her…
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