The Face

Sometimes you see a Face carried briskly down the street by denim. You think you know it; you stare, abandoning everything for a moment. No, it isn’t Her. Someone else is being carried by that denim, and you were misled by the leather jacket. She used to wear one just like that. With just such a scarf, dressed too lightly for winter. She always put her legs up on the table to improve circulation. She had a son, a family. Maybe she was married or divorced. You remember one thing she said:

No one will ever believe you’re shy. You look too confident.

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