I've never spoke a word to her, she was just always there, before me.

Her solid, stolid form reassured me that I hadn't missed my bus for those last few precious minutes in bed. She was comfortingly familiar, part of the backdrop of my new workday morning routine.

I'd show up hastily, with my steaming cup of tea(if I hadn't forgotten it on the counter as I did a few times, burying my freezing hands in my copious pockets and cussing in the chill of the morning air) and there she'd be, standing calmly with her plastic airline bag(?) in one hand and her gorgeous, ornate brown leather purse with amber gems on it's patterned flap flung over her shoulder.

I wondered about her sometimes, she looked slavic, russian perhaps, short dark hair and pudgy face. Her clothes were ordinary office wear, except for her magical bag and her shoes-which pointed like an elf's.

I wondered where she worked, what was in the plastic bags she always carried, how many pointy shoes were lined up on the floor of her closet.

We never said anything to each other, just maintained a casual, matter-of-fact silence, watching the yoga ladies hurry through the blowing dust of the construction zone with their mats clutched to their chests as we waited for the 65 to come.

I guess she got herself a car, or a different job or something.

Odd, to miss a stranger.