She sat down on a bench near the bus stop at Copley Square, far away from the men smoking cigarettes to mask the scent from a sickly-sweet joint tucked neatly between fingers, hidden in a palm, passed from hand to hand.
She seemed to have a checklist of colors while dressing in the morning. Green bandana. Orange hair. Black boxer shorts with flecks of color. Grey tank top. Red socks. Brown combat boots.
She pulled a cd player and headphones from her tattered bag. After a push of a button, her voice, belting "Love Shack," echoed from the Hancock Tower to Trinity Church as if Copley were a karaoke bar with no accompaniment.
Her legs began bouncing. Soon she was no longer on the bench, but dancing across the pavement as she sucked on a cigarette, performing to please no one but herself.