A Happy Woman.

The curious thing about Waterloo Street was the way it glowed with all the colours of the rainbow even in the black of night. It was almost difficult to understand its pink and green fluorescence. Waterloo Street was sleeping; the neon signs of motels and shops leaned in soft afterglow against the sturdy backs of resting temples. Between day and day, between trains of commuters, between masses of devotees, this moment, when Waterloo Street slept, she claimed as her own.

Breaking the silence, her heels tapped rhythmically against the red road, although she told them to contain themselves. Perhaps she was the phosphorous heart of this glow-worm. Why, even her ears must be luminous now. Perhaps that was why the shiny lamps of the street were so bright – they reflected the tips of her ears.

The lotuses of the morning lingered, spirits of the hopeful who came and wished and wished at the chalked feet of the immobile idols. Their earnestness left but mortal traces - wilting leaves too unpretty for the altar and old sandals forgotten after prayer.

But she was not one of them tonight. She threw a wave to the standing gods, and laughed deep into the night.