We hear her before we see her running through the concourse. She’s crying, screaming, ‘I’ve lost my purse, I’ve lost my purse.’ She stops, moans, ‘Oh god, I’ve lost it. It’s gone.’ Her son clutching a clear plastic bag catches up, says,
‘Lets go back to where we bought the cucumber mum. Maybe it’s there?’
‘No. No. I had it just now. When we came down here. I had it, I’m sure-’
Moaning she begins pacing again. Her son is close to tears. He follows. She stops, collapses sobbing,
‘My purse, my-‘
The concourse is crowded. People stop, turn, stare. Women begin to congregate, to help.
Tuesday
30th August 2011
New York.
