A summer sunday

Sitting in the afternoon breeze on the deck writing tiny little stories. The grapes are nearly ripe. A teenage boy stops to finish a cigarette at the bottom of our stone steps. If I knew him, I would lecture him.  Today, I just observe unseen, with amusement.

This is the story I like best so far:

The girl looked forlorn on the faded blue seat of the train. So out of character when measured against the usual inhabitants of this line -- the delusional espousing their grand visions, and the long-since-defeated mumbling under their breath with rage -- occurrences that might normally call forth alarm or pity, but when experienced on a daily basis, simply become routine.

It was a rainy day and her maroon hood still covered her head, grazing her brow to starkly define those dark, haunted eyes.  Maybe she'd had some sort of fall from grace.  Perhaps it was anticipation of a trial or tragedy to come. Or it could simply be that she had the heart of a dove and someone had cruelly sliced it in two. 

But what can you ever really know from a chance encounter with an unfamiliar pair of eyes? It all suddenly felt like I was being duped into telling a story that had no potential to do anything for her or myself. It could just be that she was simply born with veiled eyes permanently fixed in that reflective state. It could be that she was, in fact, the happiest person on that train.