They stepped off the "Dust Bowl" platform onto our train.

Deeply carved faces exhibiting wear above what any average life could experience, what only survivors of the 1930's dust bowl had endured.  They wore hair dried and brittle from days on end of blowing desiccant bombarding each strand. With eyes red-rimmed and unfocused, a bit too watery as if glands still wanted to quench recently parched eyeballs, the two of them searched for a seat.

Were they officially older women?  I don't know, hard to tell by the age masking effects of a severely hard life.  One wore very heavy makeup that only accentuated the lines and furrows of her forehead eyes and neck.  But it was obvious why she put so much make-up on as a deep purplish blue bruise glowed from under the pancake make-up on her left cheek bone.  The lower eye-lid on the left eye, being slightly swollen, was inhibiting her upper lid from traveling the entire distance to close the eye at each blink.  The result was a look at constantly winking at whatever she gazed at.

The talked and laughed lightly yet unconcerned about anyone who might be eavesdropping.  Their body and hand movements seemed over exaggerated, maybe all for attention as they and plopped into the seat across from hubby and I. 

But, by golly, these pair of ladies were dressed to the nines, flouncy blouses under mangy fake fur coats,  hoary calloused, disjointed feet wedged in scandals, freshly pressed and cleaned trousers - all clothing much too lightweight for a cold night like tonight. It was as if they hoped all the clanking heavy costume jewelry would ward off winter frost bite.

Where had they been? I thought.  Where had they walked from to get to this platform?

 And maybe better yet, where were they going?