I wonder if she recognizes me as I do her, because I see her almost every day while walking to the office and miss her when she's not there. Sitting on the ground at the edge of the sidewalk surrounded by minimal possessions, with her hair piled atop her head in a lavender mass of unintentional dreadlocks, her face is covered with some kind of paste; like the whiteface clowns wear, only silver. Today I notice a lighter version of the silver, this time sprayed all over her head, shoulders, and jacket sleeves as well.
The silver lady, I call her.
I wonder what she thinks sitting there silvery on the sidewalk, watching me pass with a quick step, briefcase slung over my shoulder, and rushing with the others at that early morning hour. Does she wish to change places? Does she wonder what I do, or even care? Or is she perfectly happy sitting on the sidewalk sipping her paper cup of coffee in her glorious silvery shimmer, watching the world go by?
Who of the mass of passers-by would trade places with her?
I wonder.