A woman was getting out of her car. It was a slow extrication, old bones and joints mutinous, her face set in a disappointed grimace. Her hair was dyed a dull brown, too dark for skin that had turned to rice paper.
She looked right at me as Kitty Cat and I weaved, slowly, yet surely, around her open door.
The gaze she settled upon me was this: defeat, envy, portent.
Or maybe that's just how I took it.