The Black Purse

She sat in the comer, her legs extended across the different shades of brown tiles that covered the floor. Her torso slumped down in the chair on an angle so that her bum rested on the edge of the seat and her shoulder blades interlocked with the back of the chair.

Her left hand rested on the veneer table. She watched the smoke from the cigarette resting between her fingers curl upwards through the air. It seemed to weave its way through the room until it disappeared into a void. Her other hand clutched the black hand bag she carried with her. Her eyes darted back and forth between the hand bag and the vanishing smoke.

It was a nice bag; the nicest that she had ever owned. 'Pure leather, 100% bona fide leather,' she kept telling herself When she noticed people staring at it, she was sure that it was in envy. If they stared too hard then she would tighten her hold on it.

It had been a long time since she had sat in the coffee shop. The middle aged woman behind the counter, having done her aging bring up three children by herself; would tell her, "Can't come in here dear." The warning was usually issued before she had even come through the double doors that led from Bloor street into the shop.

"My name's not dear," she would mumble to herself before turning and going back out and onto the street.

That was in the beginning. Eventually, she started to play a game. Each morning, just after midnight, she'd pace up and down the sidewalk looking through the glass windows that marked the parameters of the donut shop. Out of the comer of one eye, she'd watch the lady behind the counter; while her other eye searched the street for someone that might give her a cigarette, or some change.

When she had collected enough money to buy a coffee, and had an ample supply of cigarettes, she would slip in past the first set of doors and stand behind the telephone in the lobby. The telephone would conceal her slender figure from the watchful eyes of the lady behind the counter.

The Black Purse - go to page 2

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