I couldn't help but notice that her belt matched her glasses and her earrings matched her shoes. I wanted so badly to tell her that I'd seen it, these little details that took her however long. Maybe she just threw them on, maybe it was by accident. Maybe she stood for hours in the store and more at home and tried combination after combination until she was struck just so.
I walked up to her and, Hi, I said. She hesitated and she said hello. I couldn't help but notice, and I spelled everything out. Oh, she said, really? She looked at her belt and her shoes, her eye scanned the periphery of her rims, the earrings she took at my word. It's really lovely, I said. She smiled and said thank you.
The light turned green, she started walking and I started walking, too. But two steps in I turned around, abrupt and swinging, and stood idle by a coffee shop until she'd gone away. I didn't want her to think I was following. I didn't want her to think I needed more from her. In a perfect world she went home and maybe late that night took off her earrings and looked at her kicked-off shoes near her closet. And then she briefly thinks of me before she washes her face or reads, and then forgets.
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