I saw her once before today, through the glossy window of a coffee shop downtown. She held herself slightly, as if she felt fragile. But her body disagreed. It fought against her, pushing itself upward into perfect posture, shoulders back and head high.
That’s what struck me, the conflict. In one hand she held her coffee, and she fished through her purse with the other, searching for something. A tip? I couldn’t tell, and as I looked closer, a passing car reflected off the window, obscuring her and distracting me. When I looked back, she was gone.
That was what, three weeks ago? It couldn’t have been longer than that. And now I see her again, standing in the middle of the road, holding her proud body gently against its will.
In front of her, the bus doesn’t move, but the driver, agitated, waves his arms, yelling. People gather on the sidewalks to gawk. Car horns blare behind the bus, but she stands still, her eyes closed as if waiting.
It has become an issue, and my car is parked in the middle of it. I’ll never get out of here with things like this, I think. Something has to happen. She can’t just stand there forever. So I push through the crowd and walk into the middle of the road.
“Are you okay?” I ask, looking closely to see if I can find any clues to the situation.
“Please don’t.” She doesn’t open her eyes, only breathes in slowly, exhaling softly.
“Don’t what? I’m trying to get you out of the road so I can move my car,” I reply, slowly edging closer to her.
“Please don’t touch me.”
“If you don’t move, I’m going to have to help you get you off the road.” She doesn’t reply, so I reach for her, hoping to get a solid hold on her hoodie.
Just as my fingers glance against the fabric, she disappears.
There’s no crowd, no bus, no disruption, and no one standing in the middle of the road. I am standing in front of my car, keys in hand.
Nothing has happened.
But I can’t believe that. I can’t admit that.
“Why did you touch me?” a voice asks from the sidewalk.
“What the hell?”
“I asked you not to touch me.” She stands there, her forearms resting on the hood of the car, her sleeves pulled back to reveal her wrists. Her dark hair peeks from under her hoodie, covering half her face. “You can’t do that.”
“What just happened?”
“You made me disappear. I didn’t want to, but you made me.” She peers at me through her hidden eyes as if I understand.
But I don’t. Not at all.
“You disappeared? You disappeared,” I repeat, as if the words will make more sense if I repeat them.
“And I didn’t want to,” she replies. So don’t do that again, okay? That’s twice you’ve made me disappear.”
I stare blankly.
“Fine,” she sighs, then pauses.
And disappears again.
And I’m left with my car keys, looking at nothing.
