Hopper Inspired Writing: "Wisht Well of Janine"

I see her every now and then, sitting alone. I've never seen anyone more gone from the worldly affairs of humanity. No one knows her name, and no one pays her heed. I have taken to call her, "Janine," after a woman who looked quite similar. A woman I knew long ago. Her pale skin shined in the moon light, most like a Visum et Repertum. Perhaps, she goes by night to arouse her victims; or more so, her prey is herself. Janine lived a short, painful life. One that she would not tell or talk about, but she looked calm and quite. She was a silent tree amongst a forest of mating calls, yet as all know: Those that are silent have the most to say. But, she said but naught and kept to herself. She never spoke of her past, her turmoil. She never made a word about her life or the strife found in it; she only said to me, on the train to New York, "My name is Janine," in the most quite of voices. She spent most her her time in thought, maybe writing a prose of two. The futility of her fate was heavily apparent, weighing down every part of her being through and through until she could no longer bear the burden anymore. A few days later, I saw her disappear, and sometimes when I am at the cafe I hear her voice. But when I turn around, the person is silently sulking over a mug of coffee.
Maybe, it is Janine. Or maybe a doppelganger; or else, just another woman in the cafe. Whoever she may be, she will always be a Janine to me.