People Watching

The girl took a seat at the gate. Her fingertips, painted a pastel pink, smoothed over her burnt orange skirt. With the fabric neatly draped over her legs, she readjusted herself one last time. She was comfortable. The girl did not have a boarding pass that day, nor any day, but she had been doing this now ever since she was able to.

 

        She was fresh out of her parents’ home, though they insisted she stay. She liked the airport on weekends, and so she went. Then again, it could be anywhere: a park, a street corner, a mall, a fair. It didn’t matter where she went.

The girl opened up the smaller pocket of her blue backpack, taking out a pair of earbuds. She plugged the wire into her phone, and so the ritual began.

 

        The chatter and bustle of the crowds faded to drums. The PA system overhead had melted into guitar strings and piano. Her own breath was an instrument, in perfect cadence with the music pouring into her ears. The girl sat back, her fingertips tapping along her orange skirt, as she looked ahead.

 

       Angled brown eyes cut through her surroundings like a knife to butter. She traced over the shapes again and again, like invisible ink outlining such noisemakers into manic illustrations. Still, a peaceful breath left her lips. Again. She took in the shapes, the colors, and began to organize.

 

       Take in all that is blue.

 

       Then red.

 

       Then green.

 

       How many people have long hair? Short hair? Beards? Earrings? What do their bags look like? 

 

        One woman had a cat. The girl didn’t really like cats.

 

       She averted her gaze to a man in uniform. He was on the phone with someone. As tall as he stood, she could still see the tears sliding down his cheeks. They stained his army green uniform with even darker speckles.

A couple was holding hands at a café. They must’ve been young. The girl always knew based on the brightness of their smiles. Young love always showed itself best in laughter and giggles.

 

       Old love? That was two men; a head of grey hair tiredly rested on the shoulder of a corduroy sweater. They were always so tired, old lovers, because of the fact that laughing was tiring. Then, they rested, at peace with their surroundings, quietly safe in each other’s arms.

 

       The girl understood it, though she didn’t fancy that for herself.

 

       No, she saw her reflection in someone else.

 

       He was a boy with a mess of red curly hair. Hard at work. The boy was hunched over a laptop, a cup of coffee sat beside him. The girl leaned forward getting a glimpse of what he was doing. It looked to be a digital art project. Color. Shapes. He saw the world in the way she did, though his world was confined to pixels within a one-and-zero binary.

 

       She found comfort in this mirror of red curls.

 

       Until, he got up to collect his things.

 

       They never stayed for long, and she never did speak.

 

       But it was nice to watch the pool, rather than ripple it.

 

       Her reflection was clearer that way.