Rugged Heart

While planning a trip to San Francisco next week, I slipped into the abyss that I so easily slip into these days.

Let's call it "San FraNostalgia."

Ugh! It's impossible NOT to miss that city! I never really stood a chance, to be honest. SF is basically the epicenter of excitement. It taught me so much about myself, others, friendships and the importance of community.

So, in honor of my one true home, I'm posting this short story about life in the city.

San Francisco, you led me to lots of personal growth. I'm definitely coming back, baby...it just might take me a little while...

Love,
Lisa


Rugged Heart

She lifts her bags, one in each hand, and ascends the stairs. Although her arms shake with the weight of the over-sized suitcases, she hardly notices. She's done this before. It's completely normal by now. As natural as the smile she will unveil once she arrives at the airport, in fact.

Coins jingle while sliding into the meter. "Money box," she has come to call it. When friends visit from other cities, she warns them that the money box on the bus is temperamental. "Be careful with the money box," she always says. "It works about half the time. Put in each quarter slowly." She rarely takes her own advice, though.

She's good at giving it, but not so good at obeying it.

With a sigh, she grabs a seat in the middle of the bus. Then she adjusts her bags so they don't block the aisle. A man with black hair and wire-rimmed glasses glances at her. She finds herself thinking that he should've been at the party on Friday. After all, she looked much more better that night; the flight attendant uniform currently sticking to her rain-soaked skin isn't flattering. And she didn't straighten her hair this morning.

Doesn't matter, she muses as the bus enters the Mission. I'm turning over a new leaf, anyway. Those days are over.

Friday night is nothing but a memory. It's indicative of the person she was, but not the person she will be. Of that, she is certain.

Her headphones echo the lyrics of her current favorite song, which is subject to change in a week or so. You're my headstart, you're my rugged heart, you're the pulse that I've always needed...

A flood of people enter through the double doors. Suddenly, everyone is crammed inside the vehicle. Elbows brush against elbows, and someone's leg presses into her side. She moves an inch, but it's a futile effort; contact can't be avoided. She is fine with this. Once upon a time, she was bothered by a stranger's touch. Now she craves it.

The bus stops on the corner of Mission and 16th, with the BART station on the right and the best Mexican food in California directly ahead. She hauls her suitcases down the stairs, noting that she was just in this spot a week ago. The breaks are beginning to feel shorter and shorter. However much time she spends at home, it's never enough. She's never quite ready to return to the vagabond life.

The doors fly open. She maneuvers toward the exit, reaching it just in time.

Boots click against pavement as she hurries toward the BART station. Mental calculations put her at SFO at nine o'clock sharp. She will be at the gate shortly thereafter, giving her ten extra minutes to stroll through the terminal and look at all the travelers.

It's her favorite part of the job. Always has been. She's a daydreamer at heart, which explains most of the horrible mistakes she has made lately. Idealism led to the belief that she could change reality with a single glance. She'd hoped to defy gravity with simply a grin.

She didn't even come close.

"Thank God for second chances," she thinks as she waits for the SFO/Milbrae train.

Be There Soon

Florida life is growing on me. Slowly. I'm a fan of the warm weather, beaches, and amazing flight attendants in this little cozy corner of the country.

Yet I must admit that SF still feels like home. It's been a big adjustment, leaving California and returning to the East Coast.

Because of that, I've decided to write a string of (EXTREMELY) short stories reminiscent of my San Francisco days. I'm still editing my 6th book, in an attempt to submit it to publishers within the next month or so. But, between edits, I plan to compose tons of bite-sized stories that take place in my favorite city on Earth.

Happy Friday, folks! Enjoy.

Love,
Lisa

Be There Soon

I stare at Justin, who stares right back at me.

We’ve already said everything we needed to say. Now we’re stuck playing the waiting game, which has happened a lot lately. It’s become almost routine for us: we fold our hands, unfold them, and smile absently while praying that our guest of honor will actually show up.

A pretty brunette takes the stage. She strums comfortably on her guitar, as though she were born with the instrument in her hand. Clearing her throat, she leans into the mic. Sweet, slow notes flow from her mouth. The melody fills every corner and crevice in this small café.

“Best open mic in town,” Justin comments, sipping his latte.

I nod, even though I prefer the open mic at Hotel Utah. “Yeah, it’s decent.”

Last week, Kevin took the stage here. His voice was shaky, but his lyrics were amazing. I was blown away, as was Justin.  In fact, everyone in the café seemed impressed. It was one of those moments I wished I could capture in a jar, so I could re-live it every now and then. Whenever Kevin’s light seems to be fading.

My cell phone buzzes with an incoming text. It rattles the whole table, causing an unnecessary amount of commotion. But I’m thrilled. A text means that he remembered us, after all.

He hasn’t given up, I think happily.

“Is that Kevin? What did he say?” Justin asks, and I can sense the excitement in his voice.

“Be there soon,” I read. My fingers shake as I place the phone back on the table. “Thank goodness. He’s coming, Justin. He’s on his way.”

“Amen,” Justin says.

It’s a small victory, of course. But, these days, we’ll take whatever we can get.

Kelli & the Past

Working at the airline, I've met too many amazing people to count. Truly, I'm blessed to have such awesome co-workers; I've learned a ton from them. And I continue to learn every day.

This is a tribute to one of the most resilient women I know.

Love,
Lisa



Kelli & the Past

“At times, I don’t like this job,” Kelli-Lynn swears, her blue eyes icier than ever. “Some people are so lazy. The galley’s left in disarray. Flight attendants play on their phones and don’t even pay attention to passengers. It can get depressing.”

I glance at the phone in my hand. It’s illuminated like a Christmas tree, with lights flashing every few seconds. Intermittent buzzing indicates that I’ve received a text message or two. 

                “Yeah, um…” I stammer. It's no secret that Kelli-Lynn is referring to me.              

“Look at this! What a mess,” Kelli mutters. She bends over, lifting a paper towel from the floor. There’s a damp spot in one corner; she steps into the puddle and slides a few inches. "Ugh. Water everywhere.”

                I bite my lip. When teachers yelled at me during high school, which didn’t happen very often, I never argued. My chin quivered, my eyes clouded over, and I searched for the nearest escape path; that was my coping mechanism.

                Kelli shakes her head, sending blond hair in every direction. “C'mon, you're better than this. Have some pride in your work, Lisa.”

                “I’m sorry,” I tell her, my voice a whisper. Without hesitation, I turn off my cell phone and jam it into the pocket of my blue airline dress. “I’ve been slacking these past couple days.”

                She inhales sharply. Then, with her jaw locked firmly in place, she folds her arms across her chest.

                “Usually I’m more helpful,” I swear, avoiding her gaze. “Lately, it’s been hard to stay motivated.”

                Kelli taps her foot against the floor. The airplane swerves to the left, indicating that we’re next in line for takeoff. “Pull yourself together, girl. We all have our issues.”

I swallow. “You’re right.”

             Two dings erupt from the cockpit, indicating that we are about to take off. Hurriedly, Kelli-Lynn and I scramble to our jumpseats. We strap in, barely breathing.

                “I’ll do better,” I promise her as the plane picks up speed. Engines roar, drowning out my voice.

                Kelli nods. The plane soars into the air, another flight taking off for another city on this average, run-of-the-mill July afternoon.

                Four months later, Kelli-Lynn and I will see each other again. This time, we’ll rub shoulders in Milwaukee. She will smile at me and actually mean it. I will laugh with her, and my laugh will have the crystalline ring of authenticity.

                We will sum up the last four months of our lives into four sentences. Then we’ll go our separate ways.

                I won’t mention that I learned about her past.

At all costs, I’ll avoid the topic that’s plagued her since she was a child.  

Instead, I will wheel my suitcases down the terminal, glancing back one time. Kelli’s back will fade into the distance, until I can hardly make out her navy blue uniform among the sea of merging colors. I will breathe deeply, wondering where the justice is in this crazy world. A man makes an evil decision, and someone has to carry the weight of that indiscretion for the next thirty years.

                It will strike me as odd and unfair.

                It will gnaw at my insides, the way my old sickness used to plague me.

                I’ll gasp for air, close my eyes, and remind myself that life isn’t about the tragedies that strike us at the most inopportune times. It’s about rising from the ashes. Kelli’s done that; there are vestiges of her abusive past, and scars that will never fully heal. But there is something else engraved on her bruised skin: there is, above all, hope.  

 

                I'll fly to another city, and sleep in another hotel room, and eat another free continental breakfast. But I won't forget Kelli's lesson, nor will I forget her strength.

In Defense of the Pickpocket

This morning, I discovered fraudulent charges on my credit card. Some fool in Canada has been tapping into my (meager) money supply in order to purchase alcohol and lumber. I suspect he's building a wine cellar.

Anyway, I'm left with a deactivated credit card, a host of fraudulent charges, a sense of betrayal by this Canadian whom I've never met, and a burning curiosity about the wine cellar he's probably constructing.

Last night, long before I found out about this identity thief, I wrote the following short story. It's oddly appropriate.

In defense of the pickpocket in the story, and also this real-life Canadian crook, we humans often seek things that don't belong to us. We're always craving what's not ours. Sometimes it gets us into trouble, while other times it just leaves us troubled. The important part is that we recognize these desires, own up to them, and figure out how to shut them off...before we start building fancy wine cellars on someone else's dime.

Love,
Lisa

In Defense of the Pickpocket

If this is redemption

Why do I bother at all?
There’s nothing to mention,

And nothing has changed.

-James Vincent McMorrow, “We Don’t Eat”

 

             The text stares up at her, a reminder of the person she’s become.

Still coming?

She typed the message around noon, while working the lunch shift. She then erased it and typed it again, at least five times. She’d played around with different phrases, eventually opting for the one that sounded the most impromptu.

“C’mon,” she murmurs aloud to her empty apartment. “Write back to me.”

              There are dishes to be washed, piles of laundry to be folded. But she stands against the kitchen counter instead, staring at the cellphone. Her heart beats fiercely. She can feel in her fingertips, ears, calves, toes. Places she’s never felt it before.

              She reaches into the fridge, grabbing a bottle of juice. It tastes rancid. The acidity lingers on her tongue and temporarily pulls her attention away from her pounding heart.

              A familiar four-note melody slices through the air. Slamming the bottle of juice onto the counter, she hurries to her phone.

                30 minutes, the incoming text reads.

                She stares at the screen, envisioning more words. Ones that are less icy and impersonal. Ones that she knows—without a shadow of a doubt--will never, ever come from the emotionless man who sent the text.

                What am I supposed to do for the next thirty minutes? she wonders. Although the past eight months disappeared faster than a breath of air in wintertime, she can’t fathom the half hour ahead of her. She knows it will drag on.

                With nothing better to do, she reaches into her pocket and extracts only a stick of gum. Nothing more. The forty dollars she earned by working lunch shift are missing.

                Her mouth drops open. She checks one more time, but the results are the same: her pocket is still empty.

This happened before, back in April. On the corner of Fillmore and Pine. She dismissed the man’s groping hand as a drunken indiscretion, until she got home and realized the stranger had wanted more than just a quick feel. He’d taken almost a hundred bucks.

                How could I let this happen again? I’m an idiot, she thinks, leaning against the kitchen sink. In defense of the pickpocket, my cash was sticking out. On display for the world to see.

                  It dawns on her that she shouldn’t be making excuses for a criminal. But she’s made so many excuses lately that it’s become a habit.

Two days later, she sits on a swivel chair in the middle of a restaurant. Her best friend stares at her, no trace of compassion or empathy in those blue-green eyes.

                “Why?” the friend asks.

                “I don’t know,” she says, and it’s the first honest answer she’s given in a long time.

                “You’ve done this before,” the friend comments in disgust.

                “I have,” she readily admits. “Several times.”

                The friend is silent for a moment. “Are you proud of yourself?”

                She doesn’t answer, because she finds the question stupid. Condescending, too.

                Quickly, she grabs her purse and leaves the restaurant. She doesn’t turn around.

It’s a cold night, which is not atypical for Northern California. Clouds block the moon. After walking a few blocks, she arrives at home. Her fingers are nearly frozen.

Her apartment offers little comfort; it’s as chilly as the air outside. A Bible sits on the floor by the closet. She can’t remember exactly which lines used to provide consolation. These days, none of the verses bring much relief.

                With a sigh, she slides to the floor. Carpet rubs against her ankles and thighs.

                Wasn’t I made new, supposedly? she reflects, staring up at the ceiling. Born again?

The trash can is filled with latex. Unwashed sheets reek of indiscretion. Her entire apartment testifies to emotional death, not rebirth.

She inches toward the thick book lying in front of the closet. She doesn’t have enough strength to pick it up, much less read it, but she stares at the cover for a few seconds.

“It’s been here,” she says quietly. She knows she has justified the unjustifiable. She also knows that grace doesn’t require a perfect resume. For that, she is grateful.   

If I'm Not Here...

In honor of today being Tuesday, I am posting a story about an amazing ministry that takes place in the Mission every Tuesday. It's been a huge part of my life here in San Francisco.

I'd be lying if I said I always kept my composure during this event. I've cried, hugged strangers, held conversations in my broken Spanish, and felt the heaviness of others' heartaches. It's been a crazy ride, for sure.

Love,

Lisa

If I’m Not Here

 

“If I’m not here next week, it’s because I killed myself,” he says with a straight face.

                I grab two bottles of Tapatio from the center of the table, pretending to clean them with my anti-bacterial wipes. Fingers slide over glass, but it’s just for show.

Sunlight filters in through the windows overhead. There are beams of gold dipping all the way to the ground, as though someone is offering a silky yellow lifeline. Unfortunately, the man isn’t interested in reaching for it.

His voice grows progressively more somber as he delivers his own eulogy.

“Life don’t have nothin’ for me anymore,” he says. “What’s this world got to offer? I ain’t had my own bed for ten years. No job, no family, not a dollar to my name. For me, life ended a long time ago.”

My eyes flick toward the man, whose hair is caked with debris. He smells like beer and sewage. Blood trickles from one ear, a parade of little red dots marching down his neck.

                “Don’t do it,” Jose tells the man. Although his accent is thick, his words are clear as day. “Suicide won’t solve your problems, brother.”

                “Yes it will,” the man swears, his tone combative. “You’ll never understand! You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

                Jose pauses for a second. “You know something?”

                The man shrugs. “Huh?”

                Jose places a hand on his dirt-encrusted arm. “It’s ok to be angry and upset. The hurt, the loss…it’s all real. But even in the worst of it, you are loved.”

                “Ha!” the man scoffs. He pushes his plate across the table; it slides down the wooden surface, landing right in front of me. I pick up the grimy dish, knowing I’ll have to wash my hands twice after touching this thing.

                “God can carry you through anything,” Jose says. “He didn’t promise an easy life, but He did promise to remain by our side throughout all of it.”

                “You can’t be serious,” the man spits. He looks Jose in the eye, then quickly shifts his gaze toward the windows. “That’s just lies they feed you in this church. Where was God when I needed Him? Where was He when I lost my family?”

                The man releases a sigh, which echoes off the walls and causes a shrill ringing in my ears. It’s the loneliest sound I’ve ever heard.

“I don’t want to talk no more,” the man says. He rises from his chair.

“Where are you going? We have time,” Jose insists.

Whirling around, I check the giant clock on the wall. It’s nearly one o’clock. The room was supposed to be emptied and cleaned half an hour ago.

                I hurry to the last table, grabbing the bottles of hot sauce in the center. I scrub them rigorously.

                “We’re running behind today,” someone notes.

I whirl around, coming face-to-face with Sheila, the volunteer coordinator. A mass of blond hair frames her porcelain skin; it might be summer in San Francisco, but Sheila’s as pale as she was in the dead of winter. Which was when we met, in fact.

“Yeah. I guess everyone lost track of time,” I say.

Abandoning my sanitized rags, I help her fold chairs.

                “Are you ok?” she asks.

I bite my lip. “Yeah. It’s just really…sad.”

Sheila leans over and whispers directly into my ear. “He does this every week.”

                “He does?”

                Sheila nods, jutting her chin in the direction of the homeless man. He doesn’t appear to be at all comforted by the words Jose is offering. In fact, the man looks like he’s damaged beyond repair.

                “Every week, he swears he’s going to commit suicide,” Sheila clarifies. “It’s a cry for attention. But that’s the case with most of the guys who come here. They’re not mentally stable.”

                “It’s a shame,” I note, unable to make sense of the brokenness I’ve seen today.

                “It certainly is. But we’re not here to save the world,” Sheila continues. “We’re here to love our neighbors. Simple as that. Keep your head up, Lisa. Don’t let the chaos deter you.”

                “I won’t,” I promise.

                She winks, then wraps an arm around my shoulders. “I started helping with this ministry ten years ago. You were, what, in high school?”
                “The tail end of it,” I tell her with a chuckle.

                “Of course! Me too,” she jokes. “Ah, the good ol’ days. Anyway, I’ve been helping every Tuesday for a decade. And you know something?”

                “Hmm?”

                “I’ve seen some crazy stuff,” Sheila declares. “But I don’t regret any of it.”

                I glance at the homeless man, who’s reaching for things. He has a jacket, a bottle of liquor, and several old newspapers.

As he gathers his pitiful belongings, Jose offers to pray for him.

                “I should sanitize that chair, huh?” I ask Sheila. From halfway across the room, I can see the streaks of mud that on the metal seat.

                She nods. “Yeah. This is the glamorous life. Welcome to the Tuesday lunch ministry, Lisa.”

                “Happy to be here,” I say with a firm nod.

Six Hours or So

In honor of my upcoming return to the airline, and thus the (temporary) end of my full-time presence in San Francisco, I have decided to write a couple SF-themed short stories. It's been fun to take a quick trip down memory lane...and throw in a few fictional concepts/conversations, for good measure.

I plan to write one short story per day for the next week or so. These snippets remind me just how thankful I am to be living in this city. Nine months ago, I packed two oversized suitcases and hopped on a 2,000-mile flight, with no reason and no plan.

I've never regretted that choice.

Love,

Lisa

Six Hours or So

 

                “You do realize everyone thinks you’re insane, right?” Jeff asks as we ascend the stairs to the 71 bus.

                “Oh?”

                He nods and inserts several crisp dollar bills into the machine, which works approximately half the time. I hold my breath while waiting to see if the dollar bills get eaten. Luckily for us, and the hordes of people standing behind us, they do.

“Yep. Crazy as hell,” he clarifies. “Nobody else would choose to live 2,000 miles away from base. What’s your commute to work? Like, five hours?”

“Six hours or so, when there’s a headwind,” I correct him. “Long and boring. The good news is that I kinda like flying. It comes with the job, you know.”

Jeff chuckles. The bus is full, so we stand near the rear exit, clutching the metal poles to avoid falling on strangers’ laps.

“And the other good news is that you don’t have to make the commute very often, due to the fact that you’re a slacker,” Jeff points out as we leave the Haight. “How long was your leave of absence this time? Seven months?”

“Yes sir. Seven glorious months in this glorious city,” I say, gesturing to the windows with my one free hand. Lush palm trees and bright, quirky storefronts provide an interesting backdrop as we cruise toward Union Square. “I’ll admit it: everyone at the airline is right. I’m completely off my rocker. Who moves to Northern California on a whim? A crazy person, that’s who.”

Jeff smiles. “Well, let the other flight attendants gossip. I think you’re adventurous.”

I snuggle into the crook of his arm, resting my head against his shoulder. “And way too stubborn for my own good.”

“Which has worked in your favor, in a lot of ways.”

“Thanks, dear,” I tell him, my words muffled by the collar of his shirt. “See, this is why you’re my number one gay husband.”

“It’s an honor.”

The bus cruises to a polite stop in front of Market and Powell. I grab Jeff’s hand and steer him toward the exit, careful not to knock over elderly folks or pummel against the pregnant woman near the stairwell.

Chilly San Francisco air hits us the instant we set foot on solid ground. It blows through our hair, giving both of us that windswept, dreamy look. I smooth down Jeff’s chestnut locks, and for a moment I can see us through someone else’s eyes. We’re an odd but interesting pair, a couple friends who know the depths of loneliness --but also the amazing perks-- of a vagabond lifestyle.

“Welcome to Union Square, the heartbeat of San Francisco,” I say, glancing at the buildings which tower above our heads. “Sometimes I try to remember if I fell in love with SF right here, on Market & Powell. I think this was the spot. It’s a little blurry, though.”

“Is this still your favorite part of the city, now that you live here?”

I tilt my head to the side. “Nope. That title goes to Dolores Park, or possibly Café International in the Lower Haight.”

Jeff nods. “When did it happen?”

“What? My love affair with San Francisco?”

He nods.

I inhale sharply. “Seems like so long ago…twelve months can feel like twelve years, especially when your life has changed as much as mine has.”

“So you decided that you wanted to move here one year ago?”

“Yes,” I reply. “And then it took me six months to figure out how to make that happen.”

“But you did it,” he notes.

“I did it,” I echo. Then, linking my arm through his, I steer him toward the intersection where the cable cars line up, on display for every tourist and bucket-lister.

A street performer launches into a funky medley. This guy’s no stranger; I met him my first week in San Francisco and have since become good friends with him. He’s got this charisma that’s hard to ignore.

“What’s his deal?” Jeff asks, nodding toward the shaggy-haired musician.

“He makes music for a living,” I explain, as though there is no other career worth pursuing. “And he’s one of my favorite people.”  

Jordan stands before us, perched on top of a bucket. Effortlessly, he plays guitar, drums, and harmonica at the same time. I’ve seen Jordan’s act a thousand separate occasions, but it’s never gotten old. His jokes are always changing, as is his attitude. And facial hair.

“I wish I was here for more than just one night,” Jeff whispers as Jordan launches into his rendition of My Generation. “Why can’t layovers be a week? Or a month?”

“Don’t worry; you’ll get another SF layover,” I predict. “And I’ll be here when you return.”

“The killer commute isn’t enough to make you move back to Orlando?”

I shake my head firmly. It’s a question I’ve asked myself countless times, and the answer’s always the same. “No way, Jeff. I’m not leaving anytime soon.”

Truth be Told...

This is not a true story. Unless you define true as "a figment of one's imagination, with tiny glimpses of reality tossed in." In which case, we would get along really well...because I'm always looking to blur the lines between fact and fiction. As a writer and habitual daydreamer, I suppose that's just my natural tendency.

Anyway, today is about as warm and perfect as it gets. So I'm glad I finished writing this strange little story because, to be honest, I just want to go play in the sunshine.

Love,

Lisa

 

 

I’m left wiping at my eyes instead,

And swearing that I’m better yet

While waiting for time to pass by

 

The lyrics float through my head in a circular pattern: they appear, then disappear, then return to sight. Just like the piles of debris littering this side of Steiner Street.

Stepping over a stack of half-eaten Starbucks sandwiches, I sigh. There will be another decaying pile of food in a block or two. It’s part of life in this section of town.

A bell chimes from the Catholic church down the street, signaling that it’s noon.

Like a bolt of lightning, an idea strikes me.

“And watching the minute hand fly,” I murmur aloud. My chest fills with excitement over this small accomplishment.

“Lisa!” someone shouts.

I immediately turn toward the sound.

My escape-artist roommate, who’s become quite skilled at disappearing for days and then magically reappearing to do a single load of laundry, waves at me. She’s standing directly in front of the park; a bunch of teenage boys pause their soccer game to glance at her. Iris has the most perfect smile and this lush, vibrant hair that belongs in a commercial. She’s gorgeous.

I lift a hand, waving back.

“You look so happy,” she calls out as we continue in opposite directions.

“That’s ‘cause I just finished the chorus,” I shout, even though we’re too far apart to hear each other at this point.

My phone buzzes with a text from Iris. Good to see ya, roomie! Can I reserve the laundry machine tomorrow night?

Sure thing, I write back. I’ll be in SOMA anyways.

There’s an open mic tomorrow in SOMA and one on Wednesday in North Beach. I’ll sing my newest original song to a ragtag group of daydreamers who may or may not be able to pay rent this month.

Angry shouts stir me from my thoughts. “Outta the way! C’mon, move over! What’re ya doing?”

The sound of metal grinding against cement makes me cringe.

Just ahead, there’s an old lady in a wheelchair. She’s blocking the sidewalk, which has elicited unkind words from passersby.

Usually I ignore these awkward situations, but this woman catches my attention for some reason. Her gray hair is disheveled, tied up with a single elastic. The grooves on her face indicate she’s somewhere in her mid-seventies, or perhaps older. But certainly not younger.

Sagging skin dangles from her arms and mascara slides down her weathered cheeks.

What a mess, I think.

The wheelchair rests beside the curb, right in the flow of traffic. Her arms shake as she tries to propel herself over the curb. Clearly, the incline is too steep; she breathes loudly, exerting every ounce of force she possibly can.

She doesn’t ask for my help, doesn’t utter a word. I get behind her wheelchair anyway, though. With one effortless push, the wheels slide over the two-inch cement hurdle.

She glances up at me. Her eyes are brown like mine, except faded around the corners. One glance in those irises is enough to take my breath away; startled, I gasp for air.

I know who you are, I reflect. In all the strange novels and short stories I’ve written, I created scenarios like this one. But I never envisioned myself in the story, and I certainly didn’t predict the coldness that would sweep across my skin.

“Oh, dear,” she says, each word as shaky as the skin hanging beneath her chin. “You’re the only one who was willing to help me. Thank you.”

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek so hard that I almost draw blood. “Um…you’re welcome?”

“You remind me of myself, years ago. I used to be quite lovely, you know,” she says with a wink. Then she spins her wheels, jutting forward.

I watch the lady cruise down the street.

“While waiting for the time to pass me by,” she sings as she approaches Fillmore Street. “And watching the minute hand fly…”

She has no wedding ring, no companions or even friends to help her along. She looks haggard and used-up, like she’s outstayed her welcome in this world. Just another weird lady singing a weird song that nobody else knows.

The woman embodies every fear of mine, every foolish insecurity that keeps me awake at night.

But there was one vestige of hope, one glimmer of inspiration in those gray-brown eyes of hers. In spite of the loneliness, there was love in those irises. It shined brightly.

I continue down Steiner with shaky hands. I only look back once; by then, the wheelchair has vanished. But I don’t doubt what I experienced this afternoon, nor do I doubt its meaning. Not for a second.