But your mind inserts subtitles

They don’t make a sound.

Not one that’s audible from five steps behind her, anyway,

but your mind inserts subtitles. And her hand is invisible

and the movement is quick as a flash

though all that’s visible is her black fur coat and streaming blonde (presumably fake blonde) hair.

And she carries on walking ahead.

Slowly

on ponderously high heeled boots (also black).

And somehow in that movement,

leaning down to place coins (one? two?) in a cup held out by a homeless man,

and continuing in that slow walk down the street

in Mayfair

in the dead of night

and when a bouncer says

“Trouble”

to another bouncer as she passes,

it’s hard not to wonder,

but somehow harder to guess.

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