Mrs. Black

"That's Mrs. Black," he cupped his mouth and hissed into Niki's ear as they saw her silhouette disappear into that narrow corridor on the 4th floor.

Now, now, that is far from making a racist comment. Apart from the fact that she had ballooning eye bags, an adolescent boy's upper-lip, and numerous spots (without the slightest hint of being indicators of beauty) all over her face; there was perfectly nothing wrong with the shade of her skin.

With overalls and underpants and layers in between, she was always bundled up in fabrics of the same hue. Velvet. Sequinned. Fur. Silk. Lace. Black. Invariably dressed like the moonless night. She lived alone, kept to herself, and always took the stairs without so much as exchanging two words with anyone on her way.

What did she do and where did she go? No one seemed to have a clue. Heads turned, actions paused and words halted mid-sentence every time she shadowed in and out of view. Neighbours would huddle from different floors and hang out in the lobby - spending hours on end conjuring stories on Mrs. Darth Vader from Room #402.

"An undertaker's widow"

"A professional mourner"
"Sinister's vampire sister"
"Voodoo witch woman" 

"The Devil's goth minion"
"A Cat living her 9th life" 

When in fact, she was - A perfectly normal woman, with a perfectly normal name.
She was just waiting to lose the last 10 lbs., to speak with confidence again.

A Bagful of Reminiscence

The brown satchel sat there, snugly tucked between her winter clothes and overcoats. She'd rummaged through this section of her wardrobe hoping to find something casual to sling along her left shoulder. 

The tan leather looked raisin-creased in an unaired closet with faded impressions from over use. She loosened the contents hastily, with the glee of a child waiting to discover the trinkets in his mum's forbidden drawer. 

Dried flowers. Lost perfume. Expired paracetamol tabs. 

Gooey chocolate. Gandhian coins. Sticky change in between. 

Deformed granola bars. Parched wet-wipes. Gunk.

Chipped sea shells. Two movie tickets. Cufflinks.

Duplicate keys. Pantyhose. An invitation card. Rust.

Sandy grime of time on things.

On photographs and filigree alike. 

She recklessly overturned the forgotten fragments on the cold floor. And then swept the remains into a biodegradable bin.

Realizing, that every once in a while even old memories can do with some recycling.