Concentric Circles

This is a short story I had written last yeat, thought to post it...Hope you like it.

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he cold winter sunlight reflected off her long lustrous auburn hair. It was left loose and like the mesquite tree takes the shape of the wind, it too was helplessly performing its haphazard ballet. The frayed winter coat was flapping at her calves and her hands were clasped in silent delight.

She was looking across the street at her child who was running around in circles with her hands above her head. They had been returning home from their owner’s house where the lady worked as a maid. The mother had paused here as her daughter had suddenly darted across the street to investigate a flock of pigeons. Now she was periodically swarming down on them and experiencing a wild pleasure to watch them rise hastily in the air in alarm and annoyance. The girl and the pigeons were performing a graceful coordinating act. The girl would prance around with her hands raised, in a wide circle and each time the pigeons settled to peck at the grains on the ground, the girl too would be just reaching that point on the imaginary circle and the same act would be repeated. It was as if the girl and the pigeons were involved in the romance of geometry and time.
It was on these greasy cobbled streets that she had met him. She was only 17 then and had run away from her violent uncle who was perpetually drunk. She was cold, hungry and alone. There was no one around in the streets and he had found her huddled and sobbing on the weathered benches that were sprinkled around the pavement.
He had a long tiring day himself. The trade unions were planning another uprising and the old wolves at the board meeting were ruthless as ever. He liked walking along this avenue after finishing work. It had started to faintly drizzle; he looked around and walked back to his car. The engine purred to life and he put the vehicle in first gear. He slowly bought the car forward and parked it near the be
nch where the girl was sobbing her bitterness out.

That was the night she became a woman and lost her voice.

The little girl had became tired of the pigeons and was instead to be found inspecting a tiny purple flower that had blossomed between two stones that made up the pavement. The girl looked at her mother, plucked the flower and scuttled across the street to her mother.

The tea seller told the police that his ears were still ringing with the woman’s shriek, the shriek, he said was louder than the truck’s screech.