Unraveled

It was crowded, yet again. I looked up and saw her. She was standing right in front of me, her face beaming as brightly as the plastic orange seat I was sitting on. She smiled; I turned away, casting my face downwards, pretending to sleep. Lying through the pretense of my slumber – I was getting good at it. Besides, I knew that she was not as old as she looked, and that despite appearances, my body was more tired than hers: I had been working the whole day. Tiredness and age are not proportionate variables, this much I knew. I looked up briefly and soaked in what I could see of her. It was always my belief that one should always know the faces of the ones they love, hate, are betraying, hurting, mocking, or killing: ownership. She looked like a dozen carnations popping out of a block of cement: the sturdiness of her body, erased by the aura of colors and fragrance of flowers. She was like a memory. I could also see the density of grays that peeked out of her hand-woven sun-hat. Her hair was beautifully bun up with intricate braids that ran along both sides of her oblong head. I sliced my eyes open from my fake slumber again and saw blurry hands, viciously in motion: like a murmur on steroids. She was knitting something. Orange.

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