She was changing from her everyday shoe basket, to black short boots, new ones, just bought, with the etiquette still on them.
"I do not get to go out often, now that I have an one year old boy!" she told me towards the beginning, showing me on her small camera the boy. "It is not a great picture, but that is the only one I can show, where I go."
"May I take a picture of you, with your camera?"
That is how it begun.
We did talk almost half an hour, also not all the time, from Farnham to Clapham, when she got down. She was beautiful in a way my mother was hundred year ago, in a mild melancholic way of being and even dressing and a bit shy but interesting tales, half told.
The rest, I could more or less guess, but mystery remains and intrigues me. If I wrote a novel, she could be my heroine. I would imagine her history, and her problems and, hopefully find a very happy solution for them.
So much sadness deep in her, but she still smiles!
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