I find the park’s a good spot, especially in summer. I can sit on a bench and the girls walk right past me, like my very own sushi train.
Some look at me as they go by. A few of them smile. Sometimes they even say hello.
But those girls don’t interest me.
So I wait.
I’ve been told I look like a young Clint Eastwood. I can’t see it, but I’ve been told it enough times to believe it’s not teasing.
A pack of girls giggle and sashay past. A suit in a skirt click clacks behind them, red lacquer nails punching out a text. Next a jogger, pigtails swinging, ears plugged.
None of these interest me.
So I wait.
While I wait I imagine I’m Dirty Harry. It’s not hard; I don’t like rules either.
This one walks with fast little steps, scurrying. Her eyes burrow a path ahead of her. She wears a coat, despite the heat. A big blue canvas bag pulls her right shoulder down. Her hair is a dull brown. It hangs in a thick curtain, hiding much of her face. Hiding her from the world. Hiding the world from her.
I get up and follow.
published 7 August 2013