It was sympathy she elicited, mostly. Not the good kind: the kind touched with horror and curled in recoil. The sympathy that is closer to shame.
She pushed a bicycle, always. Could not ride it – not through lack of skill, though she was a great deal rounder and stiffer than she had been and might have struggled – but because it was strung every way with bulging sacks of all conceivable colours and fabrics.
She lived a long life, despite the odds; incredible, then, that nobody ever enquired what was in the bags. Nobody thought to ask.
It was grated chocolate.