Riley
Almost every day you see a homeless girl under the bridge.
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You’re waiting for the 7:15 to downtown, steam curling off your coffee cup, when she emerges from the shadow under the bridge. You see her almost every day. A bum girl.
She’s working now, like always. Not like the shouters or the shake-a-cup guys. She is a scavenger. You’ve seen her method: quick, efficient. Plastic bottles crushed flat. Aluminum cans stomped silent.
Forget the adorable nekos in heat discarded by evil owners. She is real. When the wind shifts, you catch it – reek of dried piss.
She doesn’t beg much. Tried it, you figure, and sucked at it. Too stiff. Too quiet. No practiced sob story. Just that hollow stare if you accidentally meet her eyes – like looking into a boarded-up house.
Your train rumbles into view, brakes screeching. Time to go.