Raspberry intrigue

Her hair was dark, elegant in its simplicity. Dark, it bounced youth­fully and cheerily just above her shoulders. I was walking past a large corporate media building in Manhattan with my brother. My mouth moved in conver­sation, but my eyes were drawn to hers. Set into a pretty face, pale and smooth, were a pair of large inviting dark brown eyes. They traced along the sidewalk, slowly rising to meet mine. For a second, our eyes locked and her slightly pouty lips curled into a coquettish smile. But she couldn’t handle the intensity of the prolonged gaze of a stranger. She shyly broke off, tilting her head a little down but not completely away. Her eyes told me she was wondering who this dark stranger was and where he was going. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I too was wondering who she was, and where she was going in her rasp­berry wool coat that covered her skinny legs past the short skirt that I couldn’t see, black stockings leading to black flats, reminding me of a dancer. Her hair done nicely, her clothes put together, they told a different story from the dark ring under her eyes. She had a rare femi­ninity in her, a kind of demureness without dain­tiness. As we walked past each other, her eyes flickered back for a brief moment: who is this guy, so bold to never break his gaze? What does he like about me?

And then we disap­peared from each others’ lives. In those twenty seconds, we shared a moment of intrigue, some­thing to wonder about when our minds wander. Strangers in a city of millions who caught each others’ attention, a silent impulse that emerged, a moment that arrived as quickly as it departed.