About 2 or 3 years of age, leaning forward so that she was pressed against the safety rail of her stroller, intensely focused on something taking place on my side of the train tracks that I couldn’t see, the little girl caught my eye.
She was so engaged, staring at strangers with the open, unwavering curiosity that most adults would have a hard time getting away with on a crowded subway train in New York City, that she made me smile.
Now for the record, this is not to say that adults don’t stare. They do. But in my experience, unless they can do it without getting caught, it’s most often done, surreptitiously. At least in these here parts. And particularly on a crowded subway platform or on public transportation. But as always, there are exceptions.
When the little girl turned upstage towards her right so that I now had a view of the back of her head, both of our focus shifted and immediately rested on another sight.
The woman was in the process of removing her shoes. With its slight curl, her shoulder length fall of black hair, loosely curtained her face as she reached down, curtsy like, --to maintain an upright balance I suppose—and slipped off the thin, grey colored liner sock, before sliding barefoot into a matching grey, open heeled shoe with a large silver buckle. With the same studied, slow execution, she repeated the action with her other foot, paying no mind to any of the travelers on the platform who, in turn, were all doing a brilliant job of not watching her. At least not overtly. Except, of course, for the little girl who was very much looking at her, evidenced now by how much further she had leaned out of her stroller to acquire a better view.
Well, the little girl, and me.
The last I saw of them, as my train began to pull out of the station, the little girl was still watching, as the woman began folding up her liner socks in what appeared to be industrial strength tissue paper.