Despite Her Warmth

An Unrequited Introduction

As I write, as we speak, I am confronted and mocked by the young woman across from me. She isn't being inherently rude; minding her own business with her nose in a journal eerily similar to my own.

Something about her is off.

She is a direct reflection of myself - logically, I know this, but it's as if she is ten years younger and ten years older than I am. She's clueless and fragile, but I can tell she hasn't realized that yet. She's experienced and content, but I know she's not there yet, either. This woman is in between everything she always knew and everything she never could learn.

When I try to catch a glimpse at what she's writing, it's like my poor eyesight reminds me that it's rude to eavesdrop on another person's soul.

But it's my own.
But it's hers.

My father always told me to mind my own business and not impose on someone who does not feel like sharing, but how do I do that when her business is mine? Not metaphorically - that woman's business is the work of my own mind.
But it's hers.

Do you think she'd be bothered by my nosy-ness? By my need to absorb the knowledge on my paper - her paper - with all the tellings of a time I've lived and a time I have yet to discover?
She looks good. Tired, but good.
Her eyes are understanding and I can tell by the way she's knowing on her bottom lip that she has so much to share with me. Or maybe not me.

Maybe someone she doesn't know yet.
Maybe someone I do know.

Despite her mystery and warmth, I still feel mocked.

A woman with so much less - so much more - experience than me, sits a few feet away mirroring my every move. When I sit up, she sits up. When I breathe, as does she. But even so, I know when I write and she mocks, we are not writing the same words. No, these are different stories being told to deaf ears with fervor at the greatest volumes imaginable. The same passion, the same itch to get the words out quick enough to quench the fire in both hers and my own aching hands - but different stories.

I sat a little closer to her. I tried to peak again at her messy scrawl, but even with our journals almost touching, I couldn't read hers. I met her eyes. She stared back.

I started to introduce myself to her, but I was met with her mocking again. This time, the look in her eyes was softer. I finished my introduction to her and she continued to smile at me. She didnt tell me who she was; she knew she wouldn't have to. When I lowered my head back to my writing I watched her mock me once more, but out of the corner of my eye, I could have sworn when her pen hit her paper, she hesitated.

For a fleeting moment, almost imperceptible, she hesitated when I did not.

I'm not sure what that means, but as I finish up my writing for the night and continue to sneak glances, it does not happen again. Even when I gave her one last parting grin, her smile met her eyes - though I'm not entirely sure if my own did - and for a moment I didn't mind feeling mocked by her.