She supported herself with an old-fashioned cane. The fingers of her right hand gripped it so tightly the knuckles were turning a yellowish white—like butter or uncooked corn.
She wasn’t old, not as old as the scuffed and pocked cane even, but her hair made it difficult to determine her age. Thinning, she wore it in the style of a middle-aged man’s comb-over. This was made all the more noticable by the contrast between the eggplant black of her hair and the potato pale flesh of her scalp.
She was happy. She energetically conferred with a companion about the price of some fruit and its seasonal availability. She had not carried the cane and the probable chemotherapy which thinned her hair into the produce aisle.
Among the rows and piles of dead fruit waiting to be digested or left to rot, she seemed uniquely alive and undegradable—tenacious as the sturdy old cane which quivered under her unsteady weight.