<span style="color: #FF0080">As she looked about at nothing in particular, she caught a glimpse of the man on the bench.  <span style="font-style: italic">Seems like an artsy type, probably sketching butterflies or something</span>, she thought to herself.  Another drag from her cigarette fills her lungs and she exhales.  He is still sketching. And looking toward her direction.  Paranoia is a specialty of hers, and her body tenses up a bit.<br/><br/>She clears her throat and flicks her cigarette onto the street.  Her eyes fix onto the man sketching.  Her interest has been sparked, slightly. Her guard is up, however.<br/><br/>In the meanwhile, a homeless man approaches the girl at the wall, asking for some cash.  She shrugs her bony shoulders and gives him a cigarette.  "It's all I got, Bud," she says to him.  Her demeanor, the way she speaks....it's rough.  It's a mix between a sailor and a ruffian from the Bronx.  Cold, calloused, trite.<br/><br/>Her attention is directed toward the homeless man as they talk; for that moment, the girl's guard was dropped down some. "Yeah?  You live under the 5th Street Bridge?  I know that area well..." she says, continuing her conversation with the bum. </span>