She stands in front of the counter wearing a fuzzy, dirty coat. Her purse dangles from one arm, dollar bills in one hand as she shifts her balance absently left, hip out, then shoulder right, every movement counterbalanced, every joint hyperextensive.
The bakery smells like brioche and disappointment. She sways out of balance one way, then folds the other. The blank asana of junkiedom.
She wants to order a sticky bun, like her mother used to bake. Dollar bills fall from her hand. Damn, she thinks, I did not need that last pill.
No one scrambles to pick up the bills.