She dances down the sidewalk, as the sun behind her rebels against the horizon.

Smiles at you.

Maybe you return the smile, and she compliments you on your jacket.

She likes the colour. A faded army green that blends seamlessly with the ever-resilient avenue.

You let her know it was a Christmas gift from your father. Maybe feel a little guilty. Wonder if she’s had the good fortune to receive many of her own. Wonder if her father knows how she’s getting by. If he knows her at all.

Wonder if you’re just a total asshole for making such commonplace assumptions about an obviously nuanced individual.

There’s nothing to do but lend her an ear.

“I got eight pieces of crack in my pocket I gotta get rid of.”

Genuinely sympathize with her hustle.

“Hope you can move that shit.”

Exchange one last smile.

Feel pretty damn confident that people are all right.

Fuck the details.