I saw a woman walking slowly up the sidewalk along P Street.
She held a brace and moved deliberately, choosing each step with care. There was an ashen look on her face, as if she had been sequestered for a long time and had just ventured back into the outside world.
She wore a sweater over her shoulders, and the wind of early evening made me put on mine. She held a cigarette in her left hand.
We sat outside at a café waiting for our dinner, and I watched her make her way slowly up the hill, headed perhaps to the fountain at Dupont Circle, to the sounds of running water and the laughter of kids running around and the murmuring of people chatting after work as the sun’s last rays threw shadows across the plaza—a good place to recuperate.