Two Women Share a Smoke Ouside a Library before a Hurricane

     From the third floor of the public library, looking down, a window into the world is only slightly cloudy. Two aging women enjoy a short break and a long menthol on the curb of a cracked concrete slab. A silver Cadillac pulls in and, after hesitating, retreats again out of view. Behind the two smokers lay a patch of asphalt tattooed with spray-painted outlines of things once brown, now white: once black, now baby blue.  Old, dried pine straw mixes with red clay around the perimeter of a wizened brick apartment building, meeting the eastbound sidewalk lazily.  Winds of the coming storm blow trash and leaves about the street below in a breathy rhythm. One might imagine this is the topic of their small talk. The longer haired woman rises from her seat of stone and dust against the wall to show her companion something on her mobile device. Lacquered nails on a dry hand click deliberately on the screen face, then turn the device toward the still seated woman. 

     Moments later they rise and begin the slow, swaying walk of a tired worker back to toil. The longer haired woman stretches an open hand to the sky as if to feel for Florence or pray for peace.  The short haired woman nods in communion as the pair pass beyond the window's frame.