crumbling

I am walking through Block Arcade, fast. On a mission. Busy. Stuff to do.

Then ahead of me. Sitting alone at a table. A woman. Gentle, delicate sparrow. Old, graceful. Dressed as though she belongs to this 19th century arcade. A proud hat and soft white gloves resting quietly beside her.

She is hunched a little, holding a small florentine biscuit in two hands. Nibbling. Watching the world rush by too fast. Her eyes are watery.

I slow. And right there, my heart slowly cracks, crumbling biscuity little fragments over the grand, marble floor.