someone on the other side of the roadpublished: 2013-02-16
Two women cross the same street, on the same intersection, each in opposite directions. They meet midway and stop to talk. They know each other but clearly not all too well. They are distanced, while closed in by the cars that race by, left and right, trams and bicycles and trucks and buses rage on.
There is a drizzle. Their hair flattens under the dampness. They hold eachothers’ gazes, lock eachothers’ eyes and talk. And talk. And talk even more. When one itches her nose, so does the other. When the other pushes a strain of hair back behind her ear, so does the one.
One uses her hands more than the other. The other takes up less space than the one.
What of do they talk? Of their children? Of the weather?
They nod at each other in understanding, in confirmation, sometimes even touch one another briefly. In comfort or emphasis. They laugh too from shared experience.
Love lost or found, damages done and undone. Hope betrayed by reality.
Drizzle becomes rain. Mascara leaves black stains on their eyelids, cheekbones. They rub the stains, they rub their tears away.
And then they separate on a new green light, continue their way. Separated by the same roads that held them together. The one and the other are not alone. Somewhere, on the other side of the road, someone knows how you feel.