Old lady & younger lady praying, sounds of traffic. Prayer is almost inaudible. Older lady’s eyes are closed, lips moving in small pursed motions. Her hands are clasped in younger lady’s.
Younger lady is pretty, but not prettied-up. Long, flowing brown hair with easy waved and hints of gold in the sunlight. Brown skin like a coffee with just too much milk. Werther’s without the yellows. Butterscotch latte.
She wears a hand-knitted sweater in the not-white but not yet grey tones of natural wool. Something is embroidered or ornamented on her breast. The cinched bottom hem hugs her waist just above the belt line. It’s not flirtatiously tight, but you don’t lose her body in the wool. Comfortable. Her jeans are the same story written in a dark blue denim.
Older lady has a frayed-out, chopped-off mirror of younger lady’s hair, gone iron grey in place of gold, split ends suspended by hairspray in the light. The wrinkles on her face are deep, but soft, from kindness and worry and more good than bad.
Half-moon glasses. Eyeshadow. Black skirt and blazer with a colorful, playful blouse. The sun in the mourning.
Around the corner a woman, late 20s-30s, with her young daughter. Woman is chubby in a pleasant, innocent way. Like older lady’s wrinkles.
Thin grey hoodie, faded, cheap jeans and black chucks. Her purse is fake white leather with stitched pockets and an elaborately woven strap. It’s not a designer but it feels like one.