I See You. I’m Noting Everything About You. Am I A Stalker or Am I A Writer?

I’ve become more aware of people and my surroundings since I started writing.

I see you. You don’t know I’m watching you. You’re sitting there holding your oversized pink iPhone. Intently looking at your phone, are you even aware of your daughter’s incessant chatter? You’re in your early 40s. Your hair is blond, but your brunette roots are showing. Your face is longer and thinner than your daughter’s and son’s. Their hair is red. Do they get their copper tops from their dad?

You don’t have a clue I’m watching your every move, watching everything about you. You have no hint you will be the subject of a post. If you knew, would you tell me, “No! Stop!” or would you be flattered? Would you want me to mention how you go to the gym every morning at 5:00 am? And how you play racquetball three times a week?

Our chariot to the west coast has arrived. Passengers are disembarking. Still, you intently stare your phone. You’re a thumb scroller. I use my index finger.

Where are you and your kids going? Will you be continuing to another city? You’re comfortably dressed. Grey and red athletic shoes. Black stretch slacks, black hoodie over a grey t-shirt. Are you a frequent traveler? The back strap of your purse comes over your shoulder, around your neck, then travels across your chest between your breasts to reconnect at your side. Is that something you do for traveling, or is it what you always do in public. Your daughter has her purse the same way.

A-group passengers are starting to gather at their boarding posts. My position is A-22. You and your children remain seated. Will I see you again on the plane?

I took my customary seat, Row 7, aisle, port side. I was watching for you, hoping you’d be on the flight, but far enough back in the queue that you’d have to take a middle seat. Middle seats aren’t bad.

Do you know middle seats on 737s have more legroom than the aisle or window seats beside them? It’s true. I learned that when I bought a new rolling “fit-under-the-seat” bag. It wouldn’t fit under the aisle seat in front of me on a flight last year. But it fits fine, with room to spare, under the middle position.

You didn’t get on the plane. I searched the line for you. As passengers filed on, I was looking for you. I never saw you.

I guess you were going to Dallas, not San Diego.

© 2019 Harold Zeitung All Rights Reserved

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