flye

She sits at the train station, a yellow woman in a pink skirt down to the floor. A bag like a grandmother's sits by her side, knitting poking out the top, haphazard. She is making a jumper, tiny, fit for a doll or a premature baby. You watch her from behind your newspaper. She sees you as the clock strikes 2pm and she smiles her saffron smile, her crossed legs making pink mountains of her skirt. She has a blue dog in her handbag, bald as your father's head. She holds up the half-knitted jumper against its spotted skin. Dogs aren't allowed in the station. The sports column reports wins, losses and a regrettable tie, like the one you're wear