She always has her laptop; it’s open on her lap. Often, she’s not looking at the screen but gazing off into the distance, her face contemplative, eyebrow raised toward the sky, sporting a Mona Lisa-esque grin.
She’s also barefoot, with her second and third toes scissors in opposing directions, and she eyes them with a less-than-approving expression as if she’s been stuck in an elevator for too long or something.
She takes long, heavy breaths that resemble deep sighs as she types. I wonder why her breathing is so shallow. Does she hold it until she’s forced to gasp for more?
At times, after a deep breath, she yawns widely, revealing the dark insides of her tonsil-less mouth. Even though she might be tired, there are many hours before she finally closes her eyes to rest.
She goes through this routine: a pondering side-head glance, a deep breath, a yawn, a contemplative look at her toes. Is she stuck in a loop? What could she possibly be typing that makes her pause and do nothing at all?
I’m left wondering about her thoughts and dreams. Is she having a good time, or does she feel trapped? She’s gazing off again, a more intense stare, fixed on the tanned, eight-paned garage window across the street. What could be so captivating about it? Maybe it’s the void it represents, a blank canvas to gaze at and bounce off ideas into a page filled with wonder and mystery.
Well, that’s my hope, anyway. That she’s finding joy in what she’s doing. Because life is short, isn’t it?
I’m just a fly, with a mere twenty-day lifespan. Boy, do I understand short! I can’t get too bogged down by life’s big questions, so I’ll share some thoughts and be on my way. But this woman, with her hand-spun French braid, loose-fitting orange tank, tight black pants, and, as I mentioned before, barefeet, I hope that as she pats her braids and lets out yet another breath, she’s engaged in something that brings her happiness – even if a smile isn’t gracing her face.
Love, A Fly
Going On 40 