Not a sign. Not a reflection.
A woman. She was leaning against the worn stone arch of a closed bookshop, smoking a cigarette with the kind of unhurried grace people only have when they’re waiting for nothing in particular. Her sari—electric fuchsia—caught the last drop of daylight sliding through the clouds. For one second, the whole gray street turned soft and warm. flash on church street
But I carried that pink with me all the way home. Not a sign