Listening to music while walking, life becomes a movie. The street, the set. The wind, fans spinning at high speeds behind me, messing my hair. The people I pass, characters, extras to set the scene while the credits roll. The leaves fluttering like butterfly wings can't be real, nor I. My glossy lips closed, the calm look on my face, the quick pace to my step, the corners of my mouth turning up just slightly to smile, acknowledge the presence of a man and a woman in business suits a few feet down from the entrance to The City Center, each cupping a hand around the end of a cigarette. I don't hear the click of the lighter, but I see the flame appear, rising just above their C-shaped hand, and the definition in their cheekbones as they take in the drag. And every movement of every extra, every swing of my arms and step forward, every line of cars that pass seemingly so silently become filled with meaning interpreted by the music moving through tiny speakers and into my mind.
I begin to think of myself as a character walking in and out of people's lives as I pass. What does the wind look like pushing my short hair forward, up, sideways, a few strands in my face?
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