Train station platform, three women chat by the side of the brick ticket office. Blonde edges brighten their hair, their hair in uniform waves, even though it is winter and Saturday. They wear boots and leggings and sleek coats and earrings. They say Our daughters have a 4g phone. We just have a 3g.
A woman with round shoulders and a green coat, stiff with pockets, shuffles up along the tracks.
Our kids always take our upgrades, they say. Well actually, Paul takes Mine. –But they really need it more than We do, they say. To be with their friends.
she reaches the group of women. Her eyes are part-way closed; her hair is gray and stringy. she walks up to them, up next to the group. she is shorter than them by six inches.
Our next upgrade isn’t until November. We want a new one before then, they say. My children, they say, My children will probably take it first.
she has joined their circle. They do not look at her.
“I don’t want n—none of that,” she tells Them.