It is the hot pink socks that I immediately notice. And then the wool sweater. And her swollen ankles and feet. I can’t see her face because she holds her head in her hands. Her long, grey hair hangs like a shroud.
My first thought is, I hope she’s not a regular. The day of our arrival in Montreal, we have parked our car behind the building where we’ve rented a flat for three weeks, and as we round the corner from the alley, I see her sitting on the stoop in front of the building three doors from ours.