She's petite with pencil thin legs. Her hair is long and black, but she usually wears it pulled back. She seems to favor print pants that hug her lower body and legs and frequently wears a hoody or jacket no matter what the weather. The bump in her belly seems misplaced both with her age, which can't be much more than 25 and could be much younger, and her physique.
Every day, she paces back and forth across the parking lot in front of my apartment. She does this morning noon and night. The same 137 steps are traced back and forth across this small, barren, pragmatic space. The whole world exists beyond that lot, but she paces there like she's in a prison yard.
I want to ask her why she doesn't walk over to the shopping mall that is just three minutes away or walk in the park which is about five minutes from this asphalt cul-de-sac, but I don't want to invade her privacy or appear to be disapproving. A few times, she has made eye contact with me or my husband and has smiled once. After that cursory recognition, she has kept her eyes on the ground when we happen across her, as if acknowledging our presence too many times during her repetitive trek will reveal that she seems imprisoned within the length of a parking lot.
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