The Old Woman Who Sits Across from Me.

Her eyes, under which her skin sags noticeably like a dried river, gaze far off into distance. When they dwell on anything earthly, they betray a childlike curiosity in them – out of place with the fragile and old frame. An even nose somewhat flattened in the middle, and a jaw which gives the impression of being tightly shut. When she does speak, it is with a voice feebler than she might have years ago. Wrinkles grace her forehead just below where the red halts. She looks accustomed to the tedium of being a housewife, though her demeanor betrays no pride. The old husband sits with her, and something tells me that they’ve been together long, though they seem to belong to different communities. She looks unaccustomed to traveling, as it should be, as she’s guided by the husband as the deboarding station approaches. She seeks support from him, and the metallic poles, and escapes into the humid environment outside.

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