Subterranean Mémoire

Her bright red lipstick was the first thing I noticed. Her piercing blue eyes were the second. Although her blond tresses were neatly held back with a hair pin and ponytail, a single lock of it had delicately become tousled and dislodged by the way she was looking down into her journal. “Do people still journal with quill and parchment?” I asked myself scoffing at the idea. As I kept observing her write in her journal, I began to wonder of whom or what she was writing about. In a world were texts, as ephemeral as they are forgettable, have superseded the casual phone call as the primary means of human communication, the act of writing something that isn’t a Post-it means that it is something that transcends our current digitized reality. Her deep and serene concentration allowed me to wonderfully lose myself in the silent gesticulations manifested in the wrinkles forming on her brow and the dimples on her cheeks.

Suddenly, she looked up at me and with a mild blush and gave me a closed-lip smile. I smiled back and just as I was about to make my move, the Red Line stopped at Wilshire and Vermont, as did her smile. She got off and as the subway sped off to its next stop, I watched her walk away never to be seen again. Maybe she’ll write a journal entry about how a handsome stranger was looking at her in the subway. A man can only dream.

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