I had been rushed so was now walking briskly through the downtown crowds in my very snug, ‘modern-fit’ workout shorts. I wanted to seem purposeful, so I ran. I wanted people to know that I wasn’t wearing my short shorts because I thought I looked good in them. That would be uncharacteristic of me. It was humiliating that in the rush hour commute home, I was subjected to staring eyes.
Once off the train, I made my way to the side street. I let my body relax, even slowed down my pace. The new house that had taken years to complete seemed to be at its finishing stage; the owners were hanging photographs on the stark white living room walls. Everything was exposed- in a lovely kind of way, like they wanted you to see through them into their home. There was nothing intrusive about what I was doing.
Every person I pass, the silent face looking out the bus window, the old woman sitting next to me on the train – they each have a story. A longing, a desire, a painful shard of hurt, a quest, a secret hidden deep away. Like a breath I couldn’t quite catch, I felt ovewhelmed; like looking out into a star filled night, thinking – god, there’s just so many.
And while this epiphany might make some feel like humanity shared a common purpose, all it made me feel was little and alone, insignificant.
Up ahead two men are talking; the one in a baseball cap leaning against his car door, looks my way. I feel his burning eyes, I avert his gaze. As I walk to the opposite end of the street, I start to run again and don’t stop until the heat of the stare relents.
