"sweet escape" was not among her songs

Today on the MRT, on the way home from work, there were sights and sounds that could just about fit into the palm: miniature narratives for the making. Here's one:

A wisp of a girl, maybe 8 years old, in a plain cotton white dress with spaghetti straps, enters the carriage with a woman in a blouse with forgettable prints and black wide trousers. The woman wears a placid expression on her lined face; she looks as imperturble as her grey hair in its short perm.

The girl sings one American pop song after another as she stands next to the woman, sometimes swaying to the imaginary accompaniment. The songs are about love, longing, heartache. Her voice is thin, like the material of her dress. Gwen Stefani is not in her repertoire. She wears round glasses. Her eyes peer through them, unblinking. She points her fancy white leather shoes inwards and then outwards. They are her favourite part of the outfit.

The old woman looks ahead steadily. She does not hold on to the girl. When a seat became available, she walked hurriedly across to that side of the carriage and planted herself firmly down. The child remained standing in their former position. As I alighted, I caught one last glimpse. She is not holding on to anything and she does not seem to care that her singing is drawing the attention of tired commuters.