a short-story. 19–5–17, sp.

Ottawa Citzen

The station was crowded, as it always is, and I was late, as I always am. Trying to walk through the mass of people, I found myself behind her. Behind her red long hair and her pale-white hands and her black leather jacket, in a hurry to get to the end of that place and to the beginning of wherever she was going to, probably more late than I was.


Probably it was the way her hair bounced from one side to the other or the urgency and agility in her moves, like a wild animal, aware of everything. But she got into me. I started following her, unconsciously, trying to take a look at her face, but I couldn’t.

She used every space that appeared in front of her to run, getting stuck once again, cutting her way inside the human traffic. I couldn’t get ahead of her. In my mind, her face was a blur. I was not able to picture her eyes and nose and lips. I didn’t want to. I was expecting the surprise, the amazement, the spark in a child eyes after seeing something beautiful for the first time or a gift with his name on it in the Christmas’s tree.

But then an old man bumped into me and I almost fell over him, and he apologized and I apologized back, holding him from getting down on the floor, and when I looked up again: she was gone.

No trace of her red long hair or pale-white hands.


Nothing but the gray concrete and the gray mass of humans being. No image of her face. And I want to keep it that way in my mind: a beautiful unseen mystery.

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