Every Thursday afternoon she would arrive at Our quiet little neighborhood square. She'd sit on one side of the weathered, beef-jerky-bench under the gazebo, alongside her brown-paper-bag-companion, where she carried her midday indulgence.
As she listened to music on her headphones, swaying her head in lackadaisical figure-eights, she'd snack on fried chicken livers in an elegant and dexterous way that made one believe they were witnessing a kind of performance art.
I was ever her only audience–no one came, no one saw–except me.
I dislike fried chicken livers, but I continue to be enchanted by her eating of them.