How anyone can help but look at her is beyond me. Still, it seems no one is. She’s just another filthy, black rag-draped street-person, after all.
My time is limited, so I must take in as much as possible before my bus passes the intersection. She stands on the corner. Looks left. Right. Straight ahead. Produces a white cup, the size Starbucks dubs “tall”, and, with both hands, places its rim between her teeth. Removes her hands with a flourish, spreads her palms upward, a silent “ta da!” Her darting eyes seek applause.
“Bravo!” I say as the bus passes.