Went to writing workshop. Prompt was to draw about a character in this picture. Chose girl smiling at back.
That girl, in passing. Everyone else glum, she smiled. That wave, that abandon of youth. Before the fat bulges and the hair things, before nature begins nudging you out the door. That girl, that moment. Was pretty cute. And she smiled.
God knows what, it wasn’t me. That three-quarter turn, the Paris Hilton, they’ve mastered it from TV. Or Bollywood. Somewhere. Methinks the girls are prettier now, perhaps they shave. They’ve discovered Rexona and Veet and that first rung to social mobility, which is shame. I always wonder how I’d start the conversation. I’d love to. “Where are you from? I have a Canadian passport.” Seems crude, and rude, and not nearly enough to bridge the gap in incomes, and culture, and attitude.
So you look, and pass. They’re just moments in traffic, heat in the air conditioning. Some days – when the traffic is bad and the timing is mad – some days it’s like a breath of fresh air. Just to see a pretty girl on the street. Not to gawk or imagine or in any way violate, just to see. Cause amidst the mental assault of the city there are flowers, and fertility, and some hope for a future that is entirely different and new.