Write a reflection or short, fictional piece about this woman. Where is she? What year is it? What is she thinking? Try this in the form of an interior monologue.
Sidewalks Can Suck It
It's 5:30 in the morning, and the city is waking up from its drunken stupor, not quite ready to face another day. The sky is a nauseating shade of too-early-in-the-morning purple, the smog barely managing to shield unwary eyes from the dreadful thing. Agatha Lieberwitz (formerly Mrs Lieberwitz) is standing in her doorway, as she does every morning, contemplating the nature of sidewalks. Sidewalks! She scoffs in her head. Sidewalks indeed.
A peppy-looking mailman approaches her with a handful of letters. She sends him a scowl with the consistency and stopping power of a mid-sized sedan, but he delivers the letters anyway. Mailmen are like that, the bitches.
They're not as bad as sidewalks, but nothing really is. What kind of fascist psychopath invention is a sidewalk anyway? A designated place to walk. On the side. The cyborgs don't have to use a sidewalk. They get to walk wherever they damn well please. Especially true ever since they got their Pleasure Enhancement Chips (PECS) installed.
An young Indian man approaches Agatha with the slow, shuffling steps of someone who hasn't slept for a while.
He pulls a bundle of keys from his jacket pocket and reaches through Agatha to unlock the door. He walks right through her, and Agatha's ghost dissipates. And with her, the strange feeling that sidewalks are somehow to blame for cellphones.
Mr Shyamalan closes the door behind him and heads to bed, a crazy plot twist fermenting in his brain.