City Girl, Part 2

I shouldn’t have worn these shoes today.

Painfully stumbling into an open window seat behind the bus driver, I regret not bringing sandals to change into. Swinging my legs to the aisle, I slip my right heel out of my overpriced Kenneth Cole pumps and massage the blisters that are beginning to form on the back of my foot. It’s only the start of the day and I can’t even fathom taking another step in these shoes. The sacrifices one must make for fashion. For beauty.

Never again, I mutter to myself as I smooth out the wrinkles in my skirt. Never again.

I glance around and do what I do best: observe. I have a knack for remembering random facts about people. Birthdays. Last time you went to a club. Your ex-boyfriend’s pet’s name. Alma Mater. You name it. On today’s bus westbound to Downtown, there are at least 15 other passengers, with more than half listening to some mp3 device, a few mouthing the words to their favorite songs while others are nodding their heads in sync with silent beats. Everyone isolated in their defined space, defined time.

Hidden in the back corner, he sits with pen and paper in hand. The scene is striking; he doesn’t appear much older but he’s still clearly in school with his schoolbag situated beside him. I can’t tell if he’s writing or drawing, but whatever it is, he is doing so with such fervor and speed. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen someone work with so much intensity.

The bus jerks as it halts at the cross-section between Grand Avenue and Second Street. He glances up to survey his surroundings and accidentally meets my eye. I greet him with a smile but he immediately returns to his work—head down, pen in hand, pen to paper. Surprised at his reaction, I turn around and fumble with my watch for the time.

Though I can’t see him, I can feel him staring at me, his eyes piercing through my back, my soul, as if I were a translucent ghost.

I can’t stop shuddering.

City Girl, part 1

She doesn’t blend in like the rest of the passengers on the bus. She stands out, sitting perfectly upright in her fitted A-line skirt, cross-legged with her leather-patent black pumps dangling toward the aisle. Clearly heading for the city, she stares ahead with a soft and peaceful expression on her face. She reaches into her purse, unzips a small makeup case, and applies some chapstick.

I wish I could know what she’s thinking.

I’ve been staring at her since she got on at Union Station. I don’t know why, but she appeals to me, this city girl. Though she gives off that working-woman vibe and look, something about the way she tightly clutches her purse and searches randomly through her wallet tells me that there’s something awfully tragic about her. She’s looking for something, for someone. It makes me yearn to know what it is that’s breaking her down.

Taking my eyes off of her for the first time since she sat down, I look down at my shoes and survey the outfit I haphazardly chose five minutes before I left the apartment. I have on a Threadless shirt that I got on sale for five bucks. It’s the one with the running refridgerator. Gap pants. Converses that really should have been tossed months ago. Not a good day to make an impression.