left hand

one

I didn't thought that I would ever put any effort into my thoughts like that. I don't like to judge people. I don't like to think about people I don't know. I don't like to have that connection to someone I have never talked to but here I was doing the things I despite to do with every crack in my bones.

She was here again. The second time this week. Last week she's been here only once. Alone like usually. She has a black journal inside of her right hand, not the left hand but the right hand. Her left hand was curled into a first but a gentle fist, her thumb running over the bone of her pointing finger.

Her eyes are running around the hall but I don't know her eye color. I don't know if her eyes blaze in the same color like me and I don't know if she likes her eye color like I like mine.

She is beautiful.

She has her gentle flannel on, the one from last week, her dark hair was falling down her shoulders and back, strands dipped into gold, covering the unknown sign sticked onto her blue worn out jeans jacket, the one from last week.

She headed to him, her left hand carefully pulling out a dollar bill, she places it on his open hand, her head directed towards him and I don't know if her eyes blaze at him the same way his blue eyes pierce into her. I don't know if she is wearing the same unpredictable smile like he is. I don't know if she keeps the long hand contact like he does it because I don't know her eye color. I don't know if she wears the same disappointed look on her face like he does it but she heads to the doors of room 2 like the last week, and the week before that.

Every week, every friday, 11 pm I watch her walk into the small theatre, always with her journal and blue jeans jacket, her hair hiding whatever she wanted to hide but expect the mystery she also wore a smile, the same smile she wore last week when she walked into the same play.

The lights from above were giving her the silhouette you normally see in a Warren Beatty and I could see every place that I need to see but I couldn't see her eye color. Maybe it was purpose, maybe it was on accident, maybe she knows that I'm staring at her, maybe she chooses him to give the dollar bill and not me but how can I tell?

I saw his disappointed, almost angry determined eyes following her to the heavy doors open to the middle, a small staple holding it so she doesn't has to put her journal into her left hand to open it with her right hand. Loud noises come from the inside, chair moving, heavy voices and laughter coming up to me but I knew it wasn't her, it was never her at least that what I thought.

I never heard her speaking so I don't know if her voice pressures her words, if her voice could cut the silence, if her voice would gentle lay down an argument or if her voice was pure and delightful that you would think she was about to cry.

Sitting on my arm chair I look to the see through across from me, his blue eye reflecting and now directed towards me, his shoulders shrugging in confusion, his hands placing her dollar bill in the counter, my hands holding my book, a random page opened up, still, this page has been eyed and read more than once by me. It was my favorite. My favorite book, my favorite cover, my favorite words, my favorite meaning, my favorite silence that I hope to hear whenever I read it.

Maybe she knows this book. Maybe she likes it as much as I do. I want to ask her if she knows it, if it's her favorite, why she takes a journal to the theatre, why she holds it in her right hand not her left hand.

I heard the heavy doors close, loud steps falling away, a big man walking across the red carpet, covered in invisible dirt and leaves that fly through the glass doors.

She was one of the thirty five visitors that come every friday, but they come once and leave like you would normally, they go to that play, or maybe to the movies that play beside the room she was in. They come out laughing, or crying, or excited but she comes out like every week.

I have to wait one hour to see her walk out of the lighten up room, my eyes pushing and wandering through the people that try to get out, loud noises and heavy steps passing me but she was quit.

But I wait, maybe I will see her eyes.