Madeline

Her hands play the keyboard; fingers glide like the legs of a tarantula, gracefully the thinness of her digits, move from one side to the other, down till the contacts strike the circuit board, sending impulses to the screen.  A smile across her face flashes with her flurry of letters, waiting for a reply from the other end.  Closer to the screen her eyes move, an index finger touches the mouse pad, moving the cursor to the next spot.  She knows no one watches her, unconciously she picks at her nails, her cuticles, consumed with him, inside the screen of her laptop.

 Am I wrong, what she sees, eyes frown, a hand on her forehead, as she reads. Clenched fist, bent elbow, palm resting on her chin, clasped fingers over her mouth; not believing what’s there, her hand opens, touching the surface of her forehead. 

Both hands jump down to the keys, five seconds progress as letters move across the screen with each stroke. 

I've written sixteen lines about her, without knowing who she is. Does she remain anonymous to me?  Do these moments remain hers?  If I said something to her would she be invaded?  Am I stealing her privacy from her?  If she never knews she will never know she lost it.  How will she react to what I’ve done?  Would she even care?  Would she be flattered that someone had taken the time?  Let it go. 

Dropping my cup in the dirty dishes container next to her, excusing myself, she looked up from the screen.

“I’m sorry but I must tell you, I’ve stolen some moments with you.” She was flattered not offended. Asking about what she was doing, she said.   It wasn’t a relationship; it was about linked in, a network of acquaintances. 

“Are you a writer?”  “I guess I am. “

“My name is Madeline.” ” Do you go by Maddy”  “that too.”

“I’m John, thank you for letting me write a half a page about you.”

She's more than before, a name, a face, a smile, of a girl that strikes a chord in me.  A river of beauty that you could swim in. 

Fingers of a tarantula, a little rough, they bend and move as the sculpture in the pond of the Como conservatory.  They are not straight, rigid, angling in.  Each joint flexing opposite, flicking, extending up till they touch down on the surface of the plastic. 

Maddy is more than before.  Short blond hair, red rimmed glasses pulled up on the top of her head, a black sweater clinging tight to her shape, highlighting in contrast against the jacket over her shoulders.  As soft in front, as from the side, I got lost in her, too much to handle.  I had to go before I was too much for her. 

“Thank you for the moment and the half a page.”

 “You're welcome.” melting with the sound of her voice.

 My back burned from her eyes looking at me as I walked away.  Now wishing I took one last look back to get another glance, maybe a smile just for me.  She trenched a dendrite in me; she lingers to return at another time.  A time for a serendipidous event.  Her shiny surface was as bright below as what I saw.