Demons
There's a woman who wanders the streets of this city and sometimes comes into the shop. She always wears a faded red sweatshirt which seems the only thing holding her frail body together. Scott, my coworker, calls her Little Red Homeless Hood. The affectionate nickname amuses me, but one look at her haunted eyes sobers me right up. There is such fear, such pain there that my heart tightens whenever she fleetingly meets my gaze. She has a look and a carriage that I've only seen in war veterans still bearing the horrors they saw in Vietnam. The few words she has for me are uttered so softly, so meekly that I find myself also speaking in a hushed tone as I tell her what she owes, and realize I'm making an effort to brush her hand as I give her the change, soothe with a fleeting touch whatever demons are shrouding her. What has she seen, felt, endured in her life to turn her into such a silent slip of a woman? What has made her so afraid?