FLASH FICTION

Between the Cracks

Witnessing a homeless woman’s act of survival

Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash

“I am a victim of being perceived incorrectly.” ― Franz Kafka

It was lunchtime when I saw her sifting through a bottomless trash can outside a gourmet deli. She couldn’t stick her head in far enough. When she pulled out a half-eaten salad, it was as if she had struck gold. The trash was crawling with insects, yet she kept feasting on this imagined treasure.

Her gnarled fingers curled like a spoon, shoveling salad into her mouth at a rapid pace. She looked like a scared animal, trying to eat before someone could chase her away.

I set my sandwich down and moved closer, careful not to overstep my bounds. She had one gray eye. The other was closed and swollen. Grime coated her face, and a large purple bruise marred her forehead. Her tattered, soiled dress clung to her. Her bare feet clawed at the ground. A mop of dirty-blond hair hung in loose, coiled strands. She kept spooning the leftover salad into her mouth. I worried she might choke.

She looked up at me with one gray eye. I could feel the weight of her sadness, the hardship of her daily struggle to survive. She wanted the same as I did: peace, shelter, and food. But she had none of them. She had no choice but to dig into the muck and bury herself in humiliation. Her hunger howled like a cat at night.

A guy pulled up in a Tesla, the big kind that looked like a silver tank. Another woman arrived in a sleek black Mercedes, the kind that impresses neighbors. They hurried past her as if she were contagious.

“Do you mind if I give you ten dollars for food?” I whispered so as not to frighten her.

Surprised, she nodded like a shy little girl. She set down her spoiled salad, wiped her greasy hands on her dress, and reached for the money. She stared at me in silence for a moment. The poor woman had a gentle aura despite the stench of poverty.

“Bless you.” Her voice cracked.

“You’re welcome,” I replied, then returned to my table.

I expected her to go into the store and buy something, but she kept eating from the trash can like a leper. Perhaps down the road, she’d find a safer place to buy food, like a food truck or a hot dog vendor, where people wouldn’t judge her appearance.

She must dream of living in a house where she could find shelter from the cold and the heat. She must dream of sleeping in a comfortable bed rather than on the hard ground or under a damp bridge. It must be lonely to be an outcast, drifting from place to place, with no family or loved ones to help her.

When she finished eating, she glanced at me to make sure I was still there. She walked a few steps, bent down, and plucked a dandelion from the cracks in the brick sidewalk. She returned, handed me the flower, and flashed an angelic smile, looking at me with that one gray eye. I saw through her desperation. I looked into her one eye and saw the beauty of her soul. It flashed like a snapshot, leaving a lasting impression.

“Kindness begets kindness,” she echoed.

In that instant, my heart locked with hers. Comrades in some strange way, despite our different stations in life.

I watched her amble down the street in an awkward barefoot gait, blending into the bright sunlight, until she became invisible in the liminal distance.

© 2026 Mark Tulin

— Many thanks to May More for her July writing prompt: “The Witness.”

[embed]Be my Witness — Flash Fiction Prompt Microcosm News and Flash Fiction theme for Julymedium.com

Here’s my previous Microcosm story (“Bruise” theme ) —

[embed]The Bruised Burger When frugality triggers acid refluxmedium.com