5: Zilla
IT was dark. Zilla stood on the corner where two mean streets met. The brown blanket coat she wore merged with the background of the wall behind her. Only her face and her beige silk stockings could be seen. There was a drizzle of rain—a steady regular drizzle—swept by an occasional gust of wind. By now her woollen blanket coat was soaked. Her ungloved hands, one of which held a damp cigarette, were wet.
After a while, she threw the cigarette into the gutter; put her hands into the side pockets of her coat; leaned against the wall. She was relaxed. Her attitude was so casual that the process of standing on street corners in rainstorms might have been one which was normal, if not even pleasurable, to her. Her face, which had now taken on the look of pathetic wistfulness which had
