This girl. She is a girl who makes an impact.
Her purple hair swept across her head, and her grungy garb of black and studs project a familiar rebellious tune, that ensures her a way into my day despite the speed she travels past the public transit window.
But it’s her looking, not her look, that makes her memorable. It’s so different from the rest of her, not armored or leathered or bold. She is looking far away. She is just looking at the red hand, waiting for it to change to a white man who will permit her to cross. But she is also looking past it to the house with a toppled plastic trike sitting atop the winter beaten khaki grass in the front yard, and then to the window of the next suburban square, and then to the ash tree beyond that, and to the close hovering grey sky beyond that, and to something else beyond that.
Is she worried? I wonder, looking at the way her mouth sits open just a little, as if she is about to ask a question.
I have no idea if she is beautiful, or what kind of person she is. But she stuck, I’ll give her that.