I ran. I wasn’t in a rush, but everyone behind me was, and I hate being “that walker” everyone dreams of curbstomping. Within a few minutes of exiting my connecting train, I approached the Berri-UQAM platform in the direction of Angrignon.
My pace, along with the pace of those rushing around me, quickly became one of curious hesitance. Our eyes were fixated on the same image before us.
I could not tear my eyes away from her. No one could.
Around 5’7’’ in a simple black heel resonant of the 1995 shoe style, she wore a gray A-shaped skirt that fell right in the middle of her calve area. With straight cut folds, it had a look of some serious grandeur. Her top was a jet black semi-long neck, half sleeve with a straight cut. It was tightly tucked into her skirt, which came up just above her navel. She was softly pale with blondish hair, which had had no visible special treatment besides that of a comb. On her right arm hung a simple, small black purse. There she stood, irresistible to any set of eyes that passed. A model persona, without the visible ribs and contract. We were unfit to be in her surroundings.
The men stood, fixated. Hushed and enamored, they stared. They found themselves not aroused, but attracted to her. She didn’t allow for arousal. But she didn’t demand attraction, either. She just stood there, unflinching. Not an eyelash battered, nor a smirk shared.
With my gawking discovered, I grabbed 100 Years of Solitude (not autobiographical…yet) from my purse and read the publishing dates. Very interesting stuff when in an awkward enough position. After about 30 seconds my nosy eyes wandered and saw an unattractive male walk up beside her. He was short, had a bit of a belly, and was balding save for a few stringy strands. He was engulfed in his book and did not even glance to see her beside him.
Then, to the shock of every subatomic particle in Berri-UQAM, she asked him which book he was reading. A mumbled response resulted in a smile and a return to silence from her. I smiled. She did not acknowledge the existence of any of the men who gawked, glimpsed, gazed, and glanced at her. But the one man whose fixation lay elsewhere, she verbally acknowledged.
The train arrived and the rush returned. On the same car as her, I felt like a prepubescent boy, once again seeking haven in the publishing dates. Flashing my eyes in her direction, I saw her sitting in complete peace. A second flash of the eyes was encountered by her soft blue stare. She smiled, and I returned the favour. I got off at Peel, feeling oddly elated. I think she was an angel.
Or someone on so much E that it perforated the senses of everyone around her.
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