Whispered Secrets

When I’m in a crowd, I wonder what secrets other people are hiding. The crowd in front of me for example must hold many secrets.

As I watch detached from the mass of people, certain men and woman catch my eye. Sometimes it’s obvious how they stand out from the crowd, but other times it’s something as subtle as the strides they take.

There’s a woman with auburn hair who seems pretty confident; she’s walking with long strides, and her chin is pointed toward the sky as she chats on her cell phone.

Then there it is; the flutter of her eyes towards mine as she feels my watchful gaze. I wave, and she gives me a small wave in return. I surprised her, and her surprise causes her to hesitate long enough for me to see the fear in her eyes.

All of this happens within seconds and soon she’s walking away, still carrying out that conversation on her cell phone.

I’ve always been good at reading people, and being an artist is a viable excuse to watch people. Their movements fascinate me; their gazes holding so much emotion. People have always been a subject that excites me, almost as if I’m not one of them.

I hop off of the wall and weave my way through the crowd. As people’s arms rub against mine, I hear their secrets like whispers on a breeze.

I’m not a mind reader, that’s for certain. But I’m not exactly normal either. Everyone has a secret, and it just takes one touch for me to know what it is. I don’t know where this gift of mine came from, but I’ve always had this feeling that it has something do to with the murder of my parents.

“Rhona Fay! Rhona Fay Wright!”

I stop in the middle of the street, and a woman runs into my back. She quickly moves around me, not even stopping to apologize. I can’t help the secret that runs through my mind at her touch; she just lost her job and is on her way to tell her boyfriend that they have to move in with her parents.

I turn around, wishing that my hair was down instead of in a braid, so the blonde strands could hide my heated face. “James Collins,” I shout over the wind. “What are you doing without a jacket on?”

James stands only a few paces from me with his arms crossed over his chest and a cocky grin pulling at his lips. Upon seeing my sour expression, his big green eyes widen and his lower lip juts out slightly in a pout. “Oh, come on, Rhona Fay,” he chuckles as he walks closer. When he’s close enough, James slides his arm around mine. “Who needs a jacket when I have a pretty girl to keep me warm?”

I stiffen at his touch and wait for his secret to reach my mind. I hear a small whisper rush through my brain, but it’s too quiet and too fast for me to read it. This strikes me as odd, but I don’t let it show on my face.

Instead I slide my arm out of his grip and push him away. “Looks like you lucked out,” I say. “This pretty girl just happens to be your best friend, and she is no substitute for a jacket.”

James smirks. “Of course, she’s not. I taught her better than that.” I laugh at his self-centered remark, but James just gives me a knowing smile.

“Hey,” James says. “It’s Sunday afternoon. What are you doing out here and not anywhere near the library?”

“Actually, I was at the library a few minutes ago, but I had to leave when Claire called a family meeting at Neil’s,” I explain. “You could come too, if you want,” I then suggest with a shrug. “I’m sure Claire won’t mind.”

James shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans.  “Sure. I’ve got nothing but free time on my hands.”

I smile up at James before dipping my head a little and heading to Neil's Coffeehouse with James on my heels.