Writing Exercise One

She sat in the alley, knees tucked up against her chest; her hands were hiding something in her blue plaid skirt. She thought it was kind of dirty, but then again, that was more than fitting for a criminal such as herself. Why had she done it, why had she given into the temptation? Her fingers were getting sweaty, clutching the incriminating evidence. She knew that her hands were stained, and that she needed to scrub and scour at her palms as soon as she got rid of the item caught in her vice-like grip.

Every foot that touched the sidewalk by the alley threw her heart up into her throat. She was just far enough back so that the tips of her little black shoes could be seen past a garbage can, and if you were watching closely enough you could see them fidgeting. In her mind she imagined heavy footfalls coming her way, angry hands flinging her cover into the street, grabbing her by the collar and shaking her. In her mind she pictured bloodshot eyes and frothing at the mouth and words so loud and livid that she was deafened. She shivered and pressed herself further back against the brick wall.

There wasn't any way she could enjoy what she had believed to be her prize, her trophy. She cursed her slender, nimble fingers and the way people overlooked her childish countenance. Her toes clenching and unclenching, she mourned the way her feet had carried her out of there, nearly walking smack dab into a suited man who loomed over her, staring down quizzically. His gaze should have been filled with disgust, his eyes had probably seen right through her façade, seen what she had done.