Crossing

She carelessly tosses a few strands of hair that sauntered to her forehead, and crumples it up a bit above the nape of her neck.
There she is, in her jeans and sports tee, the predictable tick of the maker on her bosom, her black cotton jumper undone.
And the dangling earrings. What are they, he thinks.
Indian? Turkish?
Some influence from the Far East, for sure.
Billy looks on at her, the sunlight touching her face at right angles. The wrinkles done up neatly. Who would even know they exist?
She has this bohemian, even a good witch kind of charm about her. The kind that stands out in a crowd, that makes you look on without knowing why.
Maybe it is beauty of a certain kind, in another culture.
He walks by her sometimes. When she waters the Germaniums in the garden. Or lies with a book, squinting in the sun.
He somehow just wanted to be an observer today, looking closer at something that has always been there, just to unravel some hidden puzzle, some curious answer that finds its way to you with a smile.

Through all those little tasks that fill your day, you seamlessly take your fragrance along with you, creating magic and little pieces of sunshine along the way.
He had this gift, Billy.
He could tell that from what he sees now, people would have been younger years ago.
Many men would have happily wanted to spend the rest of their lives in her arms. That even say twenty-five years ago, she must have had that wistful sadness, that longing for something one can’t quite put ones finger on, in her eyes.
She looks the other way.
The lights change. He walks on.