On the corner of first and fourth, the wrinkled old eyes caught my attention. An empty change cup loudly stood in front of her body. Sheets of mangled cardboard lay under her, preserving her from sinking into the concrete. Her hair knotted down to slouched, tired shoulders. Walking up to her, chemistry book in hand, I gave her the only spare change I had. The clank of the coins against the cup put a smile on the woman's face and I resumed my walk home.
Sitting behind the valet desk, with a rose pot infront of me, an expensive sports car caught my eye. A woman and two children got out of the car. The woman, still with wrinkly blue eyes, handed me the keys to her four-door Bently and dumped change into the tip jar.