“Gomen nasai!“ It’s a reflex, really. I shouldn’t have…
I hold out the single warm glove, I pick up. The old lady turns around and stares in many shades of confusion playing around her eyes. I must have spoken Japanese. Her brows shoot up, seeing her glove in my hand.
„Thank you laddie! Bless you.“ I smile and bow slightly. Bright sunshine warms my back. The heavy tarry feeling on my hand stays, like mud on boots. The old lady turns away and hobbles down Park Lane. Her grey tweed jacket flickers with shadow and light, as she passes under the canopy of the trees nearby.
No matter how hard I try, the sadness stings in my throat, burns behind my eyes. I rip my eyes away from her back.
The old lady dies.