this isn't done. part one

"She has glass fingers," he says to the doctor, as though it is an explanation. The doctor nods and jots something down before he leans over the woman. She lays on sidewalk. There is a gray sky, and wet cement, and an abandoned stretch of road. Her red hair balloons around her head in almost a halo. Her face is the brightest, the lightest thing in the entire landscape. The ash from the doctor's cigarette falls onto the woman's beaded purse. The man, standing beside the doctor, keeps on  explaining, as he hugs a moth eaten coat around himself, "Her mother was a porclin doll, and her father was a bussiness man."

She had been waiting for the bus when they had come up to her. They held a bible, and asked her for a moment. Her mother had been such a doll, her father such a gentleman; she always excepted invitations. They held her hands, and began to save her soul. The bus came from way down the abandoned street, and they were still holding her hands. It slowed down, and the driver looked at them. It kept going, as they kept saving her soul, as she kept waiting for the bus. 

"He met her at FAO Schwarz, he was there on his lunch break, to buy a birthday present for his niece." The doctor is kneeling in the rain: checking her pulse. Her skin is too smooth, too soft, too cold. The doctor believes for a second that she has died, but then, there is a pulse, and fuck, she's breathing. "He didn't want to just buy her, that seemed weird, you know?" The doctor looks up. "So, instead he courted her." 

"Let's get her to the hospotile." 

"?" 

"I think she'll be okay, she just needs to rest." They are silent as they load her into the back seat of the doctors car. The man slips into the passenger seat, leaving his bike in the street where he'd dropped it when he finally found his friend. And they drive to the hospital.