She smokes too much. She hasn't exhaled anything other than grey and useless carbon for years. Her voice is scratchy. She coughs so hard that her whole body rattles.
She doesn't worry about cancer (god she wished she was that lucky). She doesn't worry about a lot of things, like when she's speeding down the road at 2 am she closes her eyes and- a lot of stuff
She sits in front of the laundromat and she smokes her way through the night. She likes how the world goes blurry through the grey. She thinks it's prettier when you can't see the scars.
She sits and she coughs and when someone comes by with enough money she goes with them. It is dangerous, sure. Sometimes she has bruises that last for weeks. She does not worry about it.
There are her regulars. The man with the wife he hates and hits and abandons. The boy with the dead eyes (sometimes he doesn't even want sex, sometimes he needs someone to make sure he wakes up).
The women from the coffee shop. She, the women, more smoke than flesh at this point, thinks, is her favorite. When they wake up they eat together. She lets her shower. She is kind.
The women sighs into the air. She could have come to love that girl, she thinks. Earlier, at least. It is too late for love now.
There are footsteps and a hand drops onto her head. She gets up. She walks. She doesn't look to see who it is.
They walk together through the street until a hand grabs her shirt. Makes her stop. The hand is rough and angry, When she turns she can see the glint of a knife. She closes her eyes.
She does not worry.