“Will I remember that woman?” I asked myself this morning as the car turned onto JFK. “Will I remember her almost curly brown hair, thick black jacket and pursed lips? Will I remember the way she walked as if she had stubbed her toe against the coffee table this morning? The coffee table that her mother-in-law left there against her many protests. But William said to stop, it wasn’t worth it. And she was angry. You could tell, her hands stuffed deep in her pockets, hiding the white leather gloves William had bought her after proposing. But she didn’t want the anymore.”
Will I remember her?
What about that man? I asked, still remembering the woman. He’s young and the day is young as well. He’s holding his phone as though he got a special text this morning. A ‘good morning’ from the girl he’s been trying to win over, no guy. There’s a bounce in his step that he’s clearly not used to but having fun with. His jacket is gray with buttons down the front and he wears a black hat over his curly black hair. His full lips are bright red against the cold but they’re gone. I’ve turned the corner, never to see this man again.