#10
She was trouble. Trouble was written all over her. The light pouring from the top of the building of course made it possible for everybody to see that she was.
A full swarm of youngsters kept on gravitating upon her.
As the last bit of ash fell from the tip of her neglected cigarette, all hell broke lose and quickly people were joining the ash on the floor.
How I didn't go down with the rest I still don't know. But when the silence came, heavy with the noise of broken glass and metal cooling down, I could hear her finishing the conversation casually. She barely glanced at me when, lighting up another cigarette, she passed me by. Yet she whispered my name and it chilled me to my bones.

From the exhibition: Every street has a story to tell... (by: hern42).