Afternoon Heat

This is a short story I wrote a while back. There is a writing exercise called practice writing. It is where you start with a phrase, something like “You’re listening to the radio” and you just start writing. It doesn’t matter what you write or how you write it or if what you wrote is good or not. So my point is, this is a story I wrote as practice, it has no other purpose or point and it certainly isn’t fine tuned. I haven't checked grammer, cohesiveness or sense. So don't be hard on it.

In the scorching heat of the Arizona sun, she sat alone. It was mid afternoon and everybody was busy working. The occasional restless worker would come out for a smoke before returning, restlessly, back to work. Downtown was always like this, except on the weekends when very few souls would be around. There may be a stressed out young worker or a bum or two. This afternoon was like so many others yet different just for her.
Everyone else went about their lives as usual, no one stopping to pay her any mind. And anyone who happened to notice her tear covered face quickly pretended that they hadn’t. Yes the hordes of walking suits with briefcases and access cards marched on as lemmings going through the motions of downtown life simply waiting to be out of the dull routine they were now in. but for her the yearning in her life was much stronger.
She was lost in this place, in this desert, in this scorching heat that no human should have to endure. She was lost and she knew it. She was always lost unless…

just a note

It has been pointed out to me, with distinct clarity, that, as a writer, I do not write in my blog near enough. Well I say, to those negative souls, "everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion." Therefore, I will write when and how I chose to write and I will write about whatever I wish. The frequency of my devotion should not be judged or criticized by those who also lack the constant urgency to correct grievances. Particularly those grievances that we commit against ourselves. Are those grievances, with their lack of outside parties, somehow less deserving of our attention? Do they not scream out in protest as any other? Is not a grievance against oneself, perhaps, the more brutal of offenses? If one cannot avoid injury to one’s self or at least correct the grievance brought upon one’s self then how are they ever to accomplish the correcting of such grievances against another?