"The Crying Woman on Robson"
She is sitting on the leaf-strewn sidewalk crying. Sobbing, actually. Stricken with some sort of sorrow too awful for words. This is not normal behaviour. Not exactly reasonable to sit like this on a busy corner crying. Not rational, not sensible or even sane.
My first impulse is to shunt aside any uncomfortable twitchiness to crouch beside her – whisper – “What’s wrong? What hurts? Is there anything I can do?”
But my second impulse comes so quickly – Is she crazy? Is this her shtick? Her quirk of insanity? Her affliction? And how will I be drawn into this altered picture?
The third impulse is cynical and dark – it hunches into consciousness dragging one foot and it smells bloody horrid – “This is a scam,” it insists. This crying woman wants money. She wants your money so she can buy drugs or booze for some hidden boyfriend, or herself. She cries like this because she wants to milk money out of soft-hearted suckers like me.
My final impulse is not an impulse at all; rather, a surrender. I surrender to all the indifferent passersby on this busy street. I meld into the hundreds and thousands who perhaps pass this crying woman every day. Maybe they see her crying as an occupation. I meld into the throng of humanity who do nothing, who do not pause, who simply move along.