I Could Have Her All To Myself

What is it with the way people look at you when you’re walking down the street. I saw this older woman look at me in the most curious fashion in the half-second that she saw me when we passed each other on Vine the other evening. She had on a red scarf and a white jacket with gold buttons. Her hair was black and in a ponytail; mine was long and greasy. I was hungry and thirsty. Not tired just agitated to some degree. Four birds huddled around a puddle with a newspaper in it. Swelled up with water, ink runny and unreadable. Some guy at the corner is playing a plastic can for some bread. He’s good. I sit on a stoop and listen for a bit. I suddenly feel completely alone. I take out my phone and call a friend. She reads her books for school in in a park by my apartment. I saw her there one day and we chatted briefly about the book she cradled in her arms and lap. It was an art book. And the page it was opened to was filled pointillist paintings. So many colors, and I began to think of the sea, late afternoon in the winter, clear and deep and massive and silent. We spoke for about twenty minutes. She told me how she felt about the war, and how it had impacted her life. I told her I was sorry and gently kissed her on the wrist and hand. She smiled. It turned out to be a glorious day. First seeing the clouds sweep past the hills back East, toward the shore. The waves were low but a current stong and vast kept us moving farther and faster. Out for the night to find a place that was quiet where I could have her all to myself…