Don’t Deny It

Her pencil moved furiously across the page, scribbling word after word.  She froze, looked up.  Several strands of her gray hair fell across her face, seemingly sinking into the crevices on her forehead, the lines down her cheeks.  Her eyes were surrounded by road-maps, and yet she seemed rather lost.  The pencil moved to her lip, accentuating a large mole.  Or perhaps it was a sun spot, although that seemed somehow completely unlikely.  She sat under the shadow of the subway station’s florescent light and was quite at home.  One would imagine her lips had seen decades worth of that florescent light.  Imagination is only factual to a point, however.  Are there such things as florescent sun spots?

Suddenly the pencil was on the move again.  Inspiration had struck.  Papers shuffled excitedly, the crevices on her forehead deepened, and her hand seemed as though it could barely keep up.  I feared for the life of the writing utensil.

And then she froze, again.  But her eyes were no longer searching for inspiration, they were staring, at me.  Her entire face furrowed, her mouth poised to speak.  My stomach immediately dropped about five inches into my gut.  This little old lady had struck a sort of curious fear into my very being as only a little old lady could do.  I was desperately curious as to what was about to come out of her partially opened mouth, yet somehow worried as well.

Slowly, she rose to her feet, scribbled pages falling loosely off her lap, onto the concrete.  Pencil in hand, she shuffled towards me, eyes glaring.  The pencil was lifted, menacingly.  I may have involuntarily flinched.  Maybe.  Just a touch.

“What are you lookin at?”  She asked.  I figured it best to remain silent at this point.

And then, it came, pure gold.  “Don’t deny it,” she warned, slowly shaking her pencil, eyes narrowing ever further.  “I know who you are.  I know you’re attracted to me.  Don’t deny it.”gaz

What was I supposed to say?  Sorry, you’re not my type?

My train came.

As I boarded she wandered to an innocent bystander and began fervently working to convince him of my evil, her scribbled papers long forgotten.

I love New York.


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