The immaculate - 4

She had slow, pilgrim eyes, whirling doom. She pretty much hovered in front of me, warning me about the cold - the cause of her shaking, she said - passing her fingers over her waist as if to pale out distance, fear, any forgetful languor. She remained before me so, leaning against the steps, maybe so as not to interrupt the human blob carrying itself along the shop windows and the sidewalk, and the swirl which seemed to surround the birth of baby Jesus - or was it the mythical baby of golden ages? I could hardly answer, I seemed hypnotized, crystallized in some unaccountable manner, yet ended up following her, step by step, to the nearest coffee shop.

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(to be continued)