The first thing I noticed, were her eyes.
Sad, but clear and bright. And maybe tired.
Her face, between her scarf and her hat, was smooth and too tan for this time of year. At least in this part of the world.
Her hair was neatly pulled back, under her hat, that she never took off.
She was polite, and pleasant.
She was dressed from head to toe for cold. It wasn’t bitter cold, just starting to get cold. But when you are in the cold all the time, without a solid home of a place to step into out of the cold, cold is cold.
She held onto her cup of coffee. It was a throw away cup from a gas station. It looked like it had been used often, and for awhile.
Gradually I noticed other things. Her clothes, worn neatly, were stained. Her coat was a good kind of coat for winter time. I was glad to see her in it. When her gloves came off, her fingers were dirty. Not dirty from being dirty, but because they had gone too long without having a standard way to stay clean.
No matter what I came to notice, I kept looking in her eyes. Her story was reflected there.
I know part of her story. Not a large part, but some of it.
I don’t know how to say this without coming off as … sounding …. I don’t know, this may not sound right. But I wasn’t bothered by her. I wasn’t bothered by what I saw. Or what I heard. Or her situation. I’m not saying it didn’t make me sad, that people have such stories. That’s not what I mean. I was sad. I saw this human being living in a manner that she didn’t want to be living. This was hard to see.
What I mean is…
What bothered me, and stays with me, are her eyes.
This isn’t even a close representation. But I wanted to paint her portrait.
I think I did it better with words.