Desperation

About a kilometer from the house is a small business area consisting of a Mobile station, a grocery, a small line of market stands, and a handful of bars. If you drive past this spot in the evening your headlights illuminate the silhouettes of prostitutes, sometimes in groups sometimes alone, waiting for their johns. Last night as I filled my tank at the Mobile station a woman wearing someone’s old evening gown, a long red dress with sequins, walked by and met my glance. She walked without apology but also without the self-assurance of a runway model or a Hollywood hooker. She walked just as a woman who has had a long day walks, a bit hurriedly in the direction of home with the purpose of rest. I saw her and noted that the elegance suggested by the gown did not quite conceal the poverty and desperation beneath. She wore old canvas shoes, shoes that had seen their last days but continued to be summoned for work day and night. I saw her dress, her shoes, her walk and met her eyes and wondered what she saw when she looked back . . . A foreigner? wealth? someone unburdened by the need to sacrifice everything to prolong life one more day?