The Redhead

I often saw her on the subway on my way to work. She was not beautiful, but she had a certain charm. We sometimes exchanged neutral glances.

One time, she dropped a notebook. I picked it up and handed it to her. She smiled. The next time I saw her, I smiled. She returned the smile, but then turned her head, as if to hide it. When she looked my way again, she was indifferent again. She had this princess face. Always a little dissatisfied, aloof, but with a childish charm. It was impossible to tell how old she was, maybe a college student, or maybe close to thirty.

One time I saw her when I was getting back from work. It was late already, if she started work same time I did, she must have been there for over twelve hours. I hardly recognized her, not because she looked different, but because I was not expecting to see her. So I looked at her, and we smiled. She turned away as usual. I turned away too, but I kept observing her reflection in the window.

When I was about to get off, I got up and stood next to the door. I could see her reflection was looking at my back with interest. That made my evening. One day I would walk up and say “Hi.” Maybe.

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