The streets are always busy during the day. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people pass by, unconcerned. None of them are aware of each other, except as obstacles in their paths. None of them.

And so she sat, on the bench as they all passed her by. Perhaps she was lost in thought, but her eyes were focused on her pen. Her ears caught a few snatches of conversation, but for the most part strung nothing together. Her pen was a nice pen. Nothing too expensive - she couldn't remember where she bought it - but it worked better than the cheap pens, wrote better, felt better. And it looked nicer, at any rate. She twisted it in her fingers.

"So then what did he say?"

"No, I told you. No, I'm- no, just- could you- all I-"

"People are so inconsiderate these days."

The writing on the pen had faded. It used to say where it was from, but now only a few letters remained: an E, and further down, an N. She saw the letters, but did not perceive them, save as markings on the pen. With a subtle manipulation, she clicked the pen once, and watched as the tip came out - and clicked it again and smiled faintly as it receeded.

"Do you love me?"

"I can't believe it. He fell for it? Where is he?"

"Yeah, I'll tell him. Don't worry about it."

Again she rotated it with her fingers. Something about the subtle curves and lines of the pen made it beautiful. The generic Bic pens were straight and uninteresting. This one, it had a shape to it. Perhaps it had been engineered to fit the human hand well, or perhaps its designers were simply pleased with the aesthetics. She liked it.

"Mrs. Richards? I'm afraid I have some bad news."

"Late again. She's always late."

"I'm moving away. I can't see you anymore."

Again she clicked it once and looked at the tip. It was not covered with too much ink, like some pens, but it clearly had some - just enough. It always wrote smoothly. She could make it write in a narrow or a thick line, depending on how much pressure she put on it. And the ink wouldn't smudge. She often smudged ink when she wrote with other pens.

"Sure, we'll do lunch some time."

"Turn left on 3rd, go straight until you reach the Shell station."

"What was that private grocery called? It was much cheaper."

It was a glossy black colour, but not one that looked like it was just cheap plastic. It was all black, even the metal on the clip, though in places she could see the paint starting to chip, if she looked carefully. The grip was made of rubber. At least three materials, three different shades of black, went into this pen. She wrapped her fingers around the grip.

"I don't think anyone really knows anyone else here."

"Nobody's going to hear you. Come on, tell me."

"I hate this city. Too many people around."

She smiled and pulled out a small notepad and scribbled a few words on it, tore off that sheet, and left it on the bench. With that, she tucked the pen behind her ear, stood up, and walked off. The paper was gone the next time she came back.