That smells like Tupperware

She spent most of her time waiting, killing time. While she waited she would watch the particles of dust dance in the sunlight. Thinking about doing that was boring, and untrue. Because the light didn't play tricks like that, didn't shimmer with dust fibres, didn't swap and flitter like a playful hummingbird (do hummingbirds exist in Australia?) In reality the light hovered outside the window, hid behind the bus stop, never reaching the corners of the space she occupied.

If she wasn't waiting, killing time, she was running, trying to revive the time that was beaten under her as she ran. It didn't seem fair, these two extremes. Lateness did not bode gracefully with her, not at all. Though clumsy in everyday existence, lateness was a sure shortcut to utter uncoordination, a formula for being flustered and red-faced.

When she rushed, time raced. When she waited (usually on a dirty bench, in the searing sun) time stomped slowly around her, scuffing its feet and dragging its weight.

She hated stepping onto the metal teeth of the escalator, always envisaging the fall that could take place (had taken place). While she stood to the left, she had watched a dust ball accumulate. It blew in the warm air that rushed from the platforms. It was dust, hair, fluff, forgotten bits and pieces. It grew like tumbleweed. She was repulsed, but intrigued, letting the metaphor spin forth in her mind. Sort of a sick fascination one develops at things that are unpleasant or horrific.