Hatgirl

Following her wasn't easy. I've never followed anyone before, and it isn't as easy as they make it look in the pictures. Particularly when you're extremely paranoid about being seen, and afeared of being denounced as a potential rapist if you are.

She walked purposefully across the street from the ice cream parlor, where she had had a double cone (strawberry and chocolate) and wiped her lips with a napkin she'd taken with her. Looking right then left (odd) she crossed the street. Her bag was slung carelessly over one shoulder. It was a khaki colored tote, open topped. I could see a few notebooks, what looked like a scarf, and a comb tucked loosely inside.

As she reached the sidewalk and turned the corner, I was probably no more than five steps behind, not wanting to lose her in the crowd rushing down the avenue she'd taken. Rounding the corner I stopped-looked...where....there she was! behind the lady in the red overcoat, about to cross the street again. I waited until the light had changed, then stepped around the corner and briskly made my way across the crosswalk. She was just turning along the opposite side of the street. Her movements were a bit strange for walking; I checked for and saw the twin black wires of a pair of headphones coming out from under her hat and twisting down into her tote. Music.

I like music.

Blonde, or maybe just the brown side of blonde, with short hair that was at the moment imprisoned under a brown flat-brimmed hat which fit her snugly, probably because of the headphones. She was wearing a tan dress which hugged her body oh so pleasantly until about the thighs, where it ruffled into pleats. Not trashy. Not elegant. Everyday. Everything about her was everyday.

Why was I following her. Ah. I didn't know until halfway across the street, at which point it occurred to me that I was probably trying to find out where she lived. Or talk to her. I hadn't been acting quite consciously when I followed her out of the Haagen Dazs shop a few moments earlier. Don't ask me; I still haven't figured it out. As she reached the next corner, she stopped to wait for traffic, and glanced around idly. Twirling in the grip of whatever music was playing under her hat, she glanced at me momentarily before turning to face the street, and the traffic light, once more.

Luckily I had been watching, and had managed to avert my eyes to a standard New York pavement stare before she saw me. I didn't falter, and by the time I was within fifteen feet of her, the light changed. She skipped across the street, and continued down the block. I watched her go, then, and felt part of myself leaving with her