Corner Witch Descriptive Writing

The Corner Witch

The witch hangs out at the gas station outside of town, dropping thick clouds of smoke from a red-eyed cigarette. She leans against the building, one army boot planted upon asphalt, one angled back upon brick, watching through mirrored aviators and over-bleached bangs as travellers swipe cards, pump gas, and peel out onto the highway. She ignores the town kids slamming down bikes on the sidewalk beside her, eager for evening slushies. They are not here for her, though their eyes snag on her as they tepidly round her corner perch.
The people here know who she is, without really knowing: the silhouette of a stranger, shaped unevenly from gossip and smoke. The foreigner from out of town, living in sin with her slovenly boyfriend on the run-down end

The gate latch groans as she slips it open. She murmurs quiet assurances to the wood, and the squeal of rusty hinges softens, falling noiseless by time she resets the handle. Her breath, she holds at the base of a black poplar tree. Her bag, she drops between the potted plants crowding the yard. Her head, she tilts back. A long breath pours out into the night.
Behind her, inside, the muffled din of the television cuts through the silence. Banging, shuffling noises come from the kitchen. The witch slides the aviators up her forehead, pushing until the lenses settle in the splayed ends of her bangs. Her hands reach impulsively for her pocket, but she leaves her smokes at peace.
Sighing, she bends down and grabs a potted plant at random. Pushing back its leaves, she reads the name of the townsperson attached to it, and summons their vague face to mind. She recites the details she knows of them, the positives their presence has brought her, however small. She tries to ignore the terrible things she’s heard them say about her, though these thoughts hamper her spell