Chance Encounters

She had on her favorite skirt, one of those high waist ones, with a simple tank. She felt feminine, cute, maybe even adorable in her skirt and flats. She always wanted to be beautiful, one of those women who stop a room as she walks by, but she is beginning to love her subtlety. She sat there on one of the white, low rise love seats, tapping her fingers out a rhythm singing through her head. Sometimes when the words stop, she takes to music and painting, or running. The worst is the compulsion to pick up a glass, drink down something bitterly sweet. Which is rather ironic, she thinks, because she is bitterly sweet. Slowly she picks up the glass, twirling the Gin and lime around with the stirrer, thinking out differing rhythms and rhymes to write, like a composer. She isn’t a composer. She isn’t even a writer, it is just a hobby. After all you can’t be a writer without an audience, and her audience is the moon; its the only one who listens.

Glancing around the room she took in the atmosphere, studying each grouping in their entirety. She always worried that she was one of those strange people, staring, but she was fascinated by the way people moved, their expressions, the sounds and rhythms of their voices. There was an elderly couple at a table, enjoying the sunshine from underneath their umbrella, sharing a chilled bottle of wine, white. The way they flirted gave her a sense of contentment, even though she wasn’t part of their bubble. In the corner sat a lone woman, typing furiously at her laptop, drink at her elbow, totally engrossed in the little screen in front of her. The ages and diversity of this place is why its her favorite. Someone from every walk of life, every corner of the neighborhood, converging into this one space harmoniously. Reminds her of a piano, and the way each key is different, but put together played beautifully. That theory only works if said piano is played well. Smash the keys and its like a protest to the senses…however, she thought, that metaphor works for humanity as well.

Settling her drink down on the low table, she stares into the cavern of the empty fireplace a moment, and decides to go out on the balcony.

Through the door.
Drink in hand.
In the corner.

People are rushing around here in this tiny slice of world. Watching traffic she took a deep breath. In. Out. Looking up towards the sky she waited for the moon to rise, the sun to set, darkness to come. Shifting foot to foot, she smoothed the fabric of her skirt, flipped her long hair over her shoulder, braced her hip against the railing. She felt oddly apart from all of it, as though she could sit and watch for hours without anyone noticing her. A comforting thought, and yet not. Looking into the bottom of her glass, it hit her. She felt as though the world was closing in on her, as if she were being watched, hair raising on the back of her neck. Bracing herself for the unknown, unexpected, she turned her shoulders to take in the balcony behind her. It was full of people, it being that twilight time. Some coming, others going. There was a group of young women laughing on the chains lounges in the corner, a tall waiter making his way gracefully through the crowd with a tray of food and drinks. Watching the way he moved between tables and bodies was interesting. How can a tall man be so graceful? She was thinking of how she would write the way he danced without dancing; mumbling different adjectives under her breath. A piece of prose just on the edge of her mind, fingers itching for a pen.

“Hello” a voice interrupted behind her. She didn’t even realize there was space for another person in the corner, must have missed them while daydreaming her way to the railing. He was tall as well, but where the waiter was thin he was muscular, broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips, long legs. He was well dressed, in a grey tailored suit and pocket square. She liked pocket squares. He had an air of quiet command about him, as though when he moved or spoke people would listen. Underlying that though was a sense of something…just out of sight, on the fringe of him, she couldn’t put her finger on it.

“Oh, hello” she said in surprise, studying him the way she studied all the others around her. He had a smirk on his face, as though he knew he caught her off guard and was enjoying her confusion. He was a handsome man, with an sense of style. So many men dress with no style that it is nice to simply enjoy the style of one who does. Beats checking out other women simply because they are more commonly stylish.

“Enjoying thew view?” He gestured to the crush of people behind us, from the corner of the balcony it seemed as though we were there, but not.

“Yes, I enjoy people watching. Movements are fascinating.”

“I can agree. Hows the Gin?”

“Dry.”