Slow ebb of misery

A glimpse of a face twisted with pain. A furtive glance away, followed by a wrenching of the gut in sympathy. A few footfalls later I hear the sobbing. Recollect that the woman emerged from the passenger seat of a car. And immediately I begin to imagine.

Did she break up with her lover and is it he who is behind the wheel? Will he drive off now that she is safely deposited at home? And is he a gentleman for seeing her home so early in the morning, or a brute for breaking it off with her and causing such pain?

Then I hear the car backing into a parking space along the side of the street. I hazard a glance over one shoulder and see an older man, maybe fifty, cross the street to follow the woman into a house. His shoulders are hunched, hands in his pockets.

Now I think:

Did she call Dad to rescue her from the lover who jilted her? Or am I totally wrong and she's a a minor whom Dad has just rescued from a jail cell, the poor girl unlucky enough to have been picked up for underage drinking? Or maybe Dad and daughter simply quarrelled.

Of course the myriad theories occupied me most of the morning. 'Tis the fate of the writer, is it not? To question and wonder and imagine.