I prefer skirt

This was the third day that I had slept through the street din and Bachian croak of my alarm clock. It was already 10:30. My work from the before night still remained as clothed and unattractive as ever. Bothered with this habit in becoming, I stepped out in haste and irritability, not noticing that it would take ten minutes more for the bus stop to slowly turn into something useful. It was very hot outside. Nothing unusual. And I was hungrier. When I sat down on a scratched empty yellow bench, a small middle-aged South American woman (in modest jeans and a green halter-top) quietly walked over, stood in front of me, faced away toward the street, and slung a black glittered purse over her shoulder. After peeking around a parked car to verify the certainty of her prolonging stand, she then spread her legs slightly apart, planting herself comfortably at less than shoulder-width wide, all the fat from her hips seemingly sagging down to the bottom of her buttocks, and her lower half conforming with the tube that was her back and shoulders. It was as if she were already in the bus, balancing herself during a sharp turn, straining all that was gluteus in her. I wondered how her own such turns will become to recover from, let alone gracefully; and then remembered that, “all motion is arbitrary, but it is repetition that gives it meaning.” Maybe questionable meaning makes it art as well?