I love to sit and watch the world go by, watch the people as they come and go, going about their business. It’s so much easier than interacting with them. I don’t do well with random conversation. Can’t remember names, or details. But I can imagine who they are, what they’re thinking and feeling, rather than worrying about the reality, and whether or not my presence in their life is welcome or not.
Like the elderly Asian lady walking her dog. It’s one of those fluffy poodle cross things that’s become so common, black with a long pink tongue, and even longer flag of a tail that constantly waves. It pulls gently at the leash, then stops to sniff the grass. She pauses too.
She is far less ordinary than her dog. She wears long sleeves on a warm day, and a broad brimmed bonnet that shades her face from view. From the sun, too, I’m sure. She looks something like you might see in an old painting, tending a rice field. She walks slowly, head down, face obscured. I wonder if she, like me, doesn’t do well interacting with others, so she hides. Or, perhaps, does she have something more to hide? Like a scar, or birthmark, or black eye? Maybe it’s only age.
I watch as she moves towards the edge of the park, her long skirts swishing across the tall grass, causing it to bow as she passes. As she rounds the corner, a young boy dodges around her, coming towards me with a hurried step.
He’s twelve, maybe thirteen, or perhaps he’s just short. He’s in the school uniform of one of the local high schools, but school isn’t out yet. Does he have a free period, or maybe his class was let out early? Or, perhaps, as I never did at his age, he’s cutting class for some nefarious reason.
I hope it’s not the latter. Class is a better place than walking the footpaths at 2pm. Or, it should be. Does he get bullied? Is he falling behind? Does he have some other reason no child should have for leaving school early? Are his parents ill, or working, and he has younger siblings that need his care?
Given those options I hope he’s just ditching class early for once.
He doesn’t look unhappy, or worried, only preoccupied, as if he’s deep in thought. As he passes me, with a small smile and a nod of his head, I hear a ‘ding ding’ from behind, and the boy leaps slightly to the side as a cyclist passes us both, too close for comfort.
He’s a MAMIL, a Middle Aged Man In Lycra. His body is rope thin under the tight skin of fabric. The only exception being the pocket pouch on his lower back, with goodness knows what stuffed inside. He looks back at us as he pulls his water bottle from its place in the bicycle frame, and takes a long drink. The front tyre hits a divot in the pavement causing him to wobble slightly, and he thrusts the drink bottle back into its holder in apparent frustration. Then he’s pedalling full speed again, bottom swaying. For a brief moment he’s a pleasant view.
While I’ve watched, the boy and the old woman have both walked beyond my sight. Then the cyclist is gone, too, and I’m left alone again, swinging on my seat in the shade of the trees, the sole occupant of the small rectangle of green surrounded by bitumen and concrete.
Really, as much as I love people, this is how I prefer it. Alone with the world, watching from the outside. Except for that one Rosella who chances to join me on the green, seeking food or maybe just company. He and I can cohabit with ease. It’s all about expectations.