shot

I’m staring at the woman sitting in front of me.
Every single thing about her reminds me of the fact that I am not all put together. My hair looks like I was lost in a rainforest for a week, brushing it with leaves of a liane. My bags leather seems like pulled out off mud and its grass green colour does not fit the one of my scarf. My makeup has wondered off into space and my tiredness exceeds the ambition to look graceful.
That woman, maybe in her late 40s, had a thigh gap, a ring on her finger and fur around her neck. There was that elegant sparkle around her, that aura of nothing could ever be able to ruin her posture. She avoided my eyes but surely had she analysed all my pimples by now. congratulazione. I didn’t.
I’m too busy wondering. Sleeping till the last minute of spare “becoming presentable” time in the morning is overslept, doodling on my fingers, enjoying ice cream way too much. I am some kind of a hippie, unsanded and so pathetic.
And even though I feel the need to justify everything about it: When I stepped out of the subway, jumped down the stations stairs and looked up to the weekends night sky, appreciating the few tiny stars shining through the fog and walking home- I certainly felt more life in my lungs and more fascination in my heart, then her calling a cab.