I suppose I’m a writer because I always want to know, ‘What’s The Story’…
I am an observer, I spend great chunks of time quietly watching, listening, waiting…
And more often than not wherever I am, someone is going to show me, tell me, let me know what the story is…
Many times they don’t realize they are doing it,
Because I’m ad-libbing,
Writing the story in my mind,
Filling in the blank spots…
A case in point was yesterday,
It was the middle of the day,
I had an appointment with the optometrist,
And after I was done I had to do some bank stuff,
As I drove down Dunn, a very busy street, filled with businesses, restaurants, apartments,
And a mixed bag of residential areas,
The streets were teeming with activity,
People at lunch,
Waiting for buses,
Kids skipping school,
But this one woman caught my eye,
She was probably late twenties, early thirties…
Ebony skinned, bountiful, in rust and black jeans,
With rust colored hair, sashaying…
Stopping at the light I looked at her waiting near the intersection and was startled,
Her face was a perfect light beige mask, layers of perfectly applied makeup,
The rest of her including her neck was the color of strong coffee, espresso...
Immediately I wanted to know her story,
What was inside that inspired her to paint her lovely face a completely different hue,
Wondering if she even realized the contrast,
Was her lighting at home such that she couldn’t even see it,
Or if in some way she was hiding in plain sight,
Also curious as to whether anyone in her life had ever asked or mentioned it to her,
Lovingly,
I was fascinated,
Wanted to sit down with her,
And respectfully ask,
Waiting with bated breath for her answer,
Allowing her a voice to say why,
Of course, that will never happen,
But as a writer perhaps one day,
I can compose a story of someone with her characteristics,
Inserting someone in her life,
Who will ask,
Allowing her to tell,
Her story….
Blessings,
angelia
