WoodWrightWoodwrightMolly warms her side of the bus stop, stealing shade and a proper spot for my briefcase in the process, a sight for rubbernecking hung-over peepers. The bench barely registers her addition, and I don't look at her, but I know she's there again. The sound of her cough is so quiet I almost mistake it for my imagination. Then I hear the sound of silk swooshing as her hands nervously seek the hem of her skirt, then pull and smooth compulsively, a series of disruptive noises that herald her presence. Without bothering to turn my head, (or ultimately refusing to) I give her a quick morning appraisal to see how she's come off today. It's only the usual. Chronic slenderness mocks her taste in clothes. Pink silk, ornate flowers, cut to here, slit to there. Discomforting shoes force her two inches taller-impossibly yet approvingly shorter than I at five foot seven--intend to make the back of her perk up, to catch your notice. Yet that silk hangs loose about her armpits, bags slightly