"Millie," the bag lady said, "I stink to high heaven."
Millie didn't respond, which the bag lady thought was unusual. Millie usually spoke freely.
"Hey, what do you say, Millie?"
Nothing. The rain drifted down as mist, beading on the green park bench. And Millie didn't move, though her coat was getting soaked.
The bag lady moved her hands, out of her wrapped newspapers, which fit her hands like oven mitts. "Oh, that air, that air has a bite to it."
"What's wrong Millie?" she asked, "Are you depressed?"
She touched Millie, with splayed fingers. "Millie, so cold. Why you don't you move, Millie?"
The lady on the park bench stroked her dead cat. While in the puddles gathered a million blind raindrops.
