Character sketch

I'm creating character for a story I've been working on (here & there) for 10 years. That sounds ridiculous, but it's true.

She's an older woman, mid- to late-50s. Not beautiful, but you might think she could have been pretty in her teens; she could still be attractive, but she's given up on it. Her eyes are a weak blue, red rimmed as if she's always just been crying. Her hair is chopped short; she hates it, but believes older women shouldn't have long hair; it's thin, stringy and the color is drab, washed-out, a dishwater blonde/gray; she doesn't really style it, it's fairly limp and straight. She smokes cigarettes; her voice is scratchy, deep and masculine-sounding. She has a persistent cough and her laugh is not a pleasant sound; bitterness is obvious in her laugh, and it turns into a hacking cough. Her lips are lined; red wine stains and tobacco have discolored her teeth. She wears blood red nail polish to hide the discoloration from decades of smoking. Her skin is pale, but wrinkled and leathery.

She has two children, a son & a daughter, from whom she's estranged; she's never met her grandchildren. She's divorced, a messy process; her husband left her and has married a much younger woman. She thinks it's possible she's been depressed her whole life, but has never sought help; she secretly thinks it contributed to her marriage falling apart. She's in reduced circumstances since the divorce, her ex-husband doesn't pay his alimony; she feels it's easier to let it go than try to fight him for it.

She works at a diner, a greasy spoon, in a somewhat seedy part of town. She hates the idea of wearing the uniform but also hates her regular clothes, so she's made an uneasy peace with it. There are very faded grease and food stains on her uniform blouse; her apron is worn but not worn out. She wears nylons and black tennis shoes, a black skirt and white blouse; her apron is black. She wears a name tag, a black bar on a safety pin above her left blouse pocket; gold sticker with her name in black, peeling at the edges. She usually works the night shift, coming in after dinner and going home before breakfast. There are a few regulars who've been coming to the diner for years, she always serves them; they never speak except to order unless they want their "usual" and then they just nod. She misses them and worries when they don't come, although she would never tell them or anyone that.

She does not drive; she walks everywhere or takes the bus. On the rare occasion she sees someone she knows, she averts her eyes and drops her head; she doesn't make contact and will cross the street if possible to avoid it. She keeps very much to herself.

She lives alone in a five-story walk-up apartment, on the fifth floor. Single bedroom, very small living space and kitchen. The walls are dingy off-white; she has some faded poster-prints in frames, hanging askew; the furniture is shabby but clean. On her dresser in the bedroom she has two small framed studio photos of her children's families; they're a couple years out of date. She has a very small fire escape where she keeps a folding metal chair and balances an ashtray on the corner of the railing. Sometimes she sits out here, closes her eyes and listens to the city; cigarettes and glasses of red wine are her only company. Most of the fire escape is taken up with potted plants; ferns, ivies and flowers that she tends very carefully. She doesn't grow orchids; she thinks they're too showy. Gardening in this small space comforts her and she is at peace here.

She does not have a name yet. I'm thinking something like Lois or Shirley. Please leave suggestions in the comments. Thanks!