She’s known as “The Cat Lady.” Probably because of the cats rushing ahead of her for scraps. She waddles along, rolls of fat draping her body, ballooning her legs, blending her breasts and stomach, dripping down her right arm like candle wax. Her left arm, however, is withered, thin and twisted, as if the first dying branch of a waterless plant. She shuffles to the dumpster, runs her fingers through her downy white hair, pushes the glasses to her face and begins rummaging in it. Customers from the nearby restaurant, to which the dumpster belongs, will comment, joke about, or even sling insults at this hideous troll digging about in the trash. But there was a time when she was vibrant and happy.
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