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There is a woman, perhaps in her mid-thirties, a little plump but tall. She has short, curly hair that try to reach for her shoulders but never quite succeed. Perhaps she enjoys this play between her hair and her shoulders, as I have often seen her moving her head in different directions, especially in the mornings when she walks her cats.
Yes, she has two cats who live with her and keep her company (if cats are capable of doing that). Both are of brown colour, different shades of brown, though, and the cats are curiously plump too, but tall, or do they seem tall because they are a little plump? I will observe them again the next time I see them.
Yes, I often see her when I leave for work and other times too, strolling in the neighbourhood; somehow, she has always captured my attention, for she is a perfect example of an independent woman with a mysterious air about her. I often walk past her place and find the main door ajar or the window panes open, and a strong desire to peek inside takes over me, yet I never stop, nor do I ever show any sign of interest. I just pass by and try to gaze from the corner of my eye at what it looks like inside her home, inside her life, and with the glimpses I gather, I fuel my imagination, the result of which is perhaps the mystery that surrounds her, maybe she is not enigmatic at all, just a regular working woman, behind those thick glasses that she wears and the mysterious air around her is just an artificial cloud imposed on her by me. But can you blame me? Isn’t this what writers are supposed to do? Make things up?
Poetry: The Workers' Song.
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