The Girl

I saw a girl step out in front of a car. The car screeched to a halt, the girl stood still, and New York continued around them. She stood staring at the driver who hung out of his window hurling abuse at her state of inertia. She took her time to respond as if for her the Walk – Don’t Walk sign had instead read Pause, and obeying, her world had momentarily stopped. Her long hair hung silkily to her waist, freshly washed and dark. Underneath the car had rolled an orange from her bag of groceries, at her foot a bagel sandwich had landed cream-cheese down, and from the griddle of the car hung a pound of fresh pink sausages, which had begun to sizzle from the engine’s heat. She appeared tall in her platform sandals, laced to the pleat of her knee-length plaid skirt. Her white ethnic style blouse hanging loosely and semi transparent about her slim torso and arms which cradled the brown paper bag from which had spilled half the contents. A symphony of augmented traffic horns and shouts had erupted from the yellow cabs, pick-up trucks, station wagons, and other vehicles that had shunted to a bumper to bumper halt behind the bulk of the grey Chrysler; and as if the Play button had been pressed again the girl turned and made her way across the street as though nothing had happened, followed by the white-hot glare of an enraged driver. Who pinstriped and blue shirted got out of his car, assessed the gourmet damage, tore a cooked sausage from the hood, took a bite, and with the chewed end made a one-handed gesture to the rest of the traffic, got in his car and drove on spraying orange juice on a passing cyclist. Life continued and the lady sitting at the table in front of me hiccupped and took another sip of her coffee.