I was standing in the lobby of a drop-in shelter for the mentally ill homeless in the heart of Skid Row.
She was sitting in one of the grey plastic chairs lining the wall, dressed in a black blouse and beads. Frail and small with delicate features, she had the eyes of a doe.
I noticed her immediately: she looked far too young and vibrant to be in this place, as though she had somehow confused it with the bus station a few blocks away. Perhaps she was still new at “being homeless” and not yet beaten down by it. Perhaps this was why her eyes seemed fixed on something faraway - to shut out her mistaken surroundings.
“Excuse me,” I approached her, “Would you mind if I took your photograph?”
Her eyes brightened, a broad smile appeared, and she replied, as though I had happened by at the most opportune moment, “I've been waiting for someone to take a good picture of me.”....
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