Me, Myself, and the Gypsy
I watched carefully, noticing the way she sat. There was nothing visible in her body language to suggest her life was anything but charmed. Every feature on her face was relaxed and wrinkle free. Indicating to all that glanced her way, hers was a life of ease. Years, decades even of playing this game without a break, have made this all second nature for her. This calculated wordless way of communicating has intertwined itself. Infused with her natural demeanor. Her essence. It’s subliminal, unconscious, her default. If she suddenly were transported to a different world, a different place with different circumstances. A world where her feelings and her pain were allowed. I think this disposition would be present still. Being any other way, well, it’s just too late for her to learn how. I know her better. I thought as I continued my critical watch.
You lie, I sighed, as tears welled up in my eyes. Eyes that matched hers identically. If there was a point in breathing, I would have felt the consequence of avoiding that particular action long before now. There was not a trace of movement anywhere in me as I moved alongside her. She sat with perfect posture in the back seat of her father’s old black Honda. Her head high, her shoulders back. You could feel, breathe, almost smell the ease she infused into the air around her. The way she arranged that air as it gratefully clung to her form. The way the worn leather interior complemented the hollow spaces at the small of her back and at the base of her neck. The softness of her chest as her breath playfully rose and fell. As if her essence had a rhythm all its own and it was saying to creation itself that all was right with the world. It always has been, and it always will be. It’s only her eyes that always would show her truth. Our truth, our eyes. In those deep milky chocolate eyes, there was a storm, and that storm was raging.
