Words Just So

Morning Glory

The sun outside was as bright as the quiet inside. Floors above the street below, the Chelsea Savoy in late Spring.

My accomplice in long weekend was waking as I stood staring, mesmerized by her. A black woman in her mid-forties almost dancing, shoulders back, chin-up, proud, on the bubble-gum dappled sidewalk below. She seemed to be in no real hurry, but she looked as if she was going someplace specific.

She wore a long white t-shirt, over sized with a v-neck. It was stained. She wore clear jelly shoes. Her hair, not very long, but tied back with skews of fringe panicking about atop her head.

She disappeared after a while, but I held my gaze on the farthest of spots until someone coming from the opposite direction, a man with a full suit, briefcase and hat strode by on his way to the subway. He rounded the entrance and skipped down the stairs.

There were trees on rooftops and birds. The sky was sheer blue, not a hint of clouds. The sun reflected and angled its way back down to the street.

My eyes hungry, I saw the woman reappear. In her hand an orange creamsicle, half eaten. Her gaze and intentions loomed over this icy prize. There was nothing and no one else, not the strangers on the street or the voices in her head to distract her.

Again, I watched until I could no longer see.