Being Strangers

It's been a week of people watching.

In a restaurant one day, I saw a tall man and a short girl get seated. At first, I thought they were father and daughter, the man was so much taller, the girl so short and young. But after they removed their coats, hats and scarves, there was no notable age differential on their faces, and seated, their height differential was unremarkable too. The father and daughter became a young couple in their twenties. The man was not old and bald, his head was fashionably shaven; the girl was not young, she was wearing a purple frilly scarf with a furry hat that I usually associate with little girls.

My bad. But evidently, I continued to stare and stare, because after a while, the man started to look self-conscious, like he knew he was being stared at, by me. It was that discomfort that made me realize why I was still staring at him. He looked like Paul Bernardo when Bernardo was arrested! Which explains why I was asking myself, Shouldn't he be in jail? Is she his next victim?

But no, of course it was not him. I forced myself to look away and wake up. It was just someone who looked like him. Maybe I was staring with guardedness, fear, curiosity, maybe even hostility. No wonder he looked uncomfortable.

The next person who caught my eye was in the subway. I still don't know if that person is male or female. What I saw was a tall, young, thin person with fragile features, close cropped hair, wearing a baggy parka, jeans and construction boots. S/he wore studs in both ears and had delicate hands, not indicative of gender these days. I looked for an Adam's apple. There wasn't one. I looked for breasts. There were none. I looked for feminine movements. None came. I looked for facial hair. I couldn't see any. Androgny never looked so real. No doubt I stared and stared at this person too and s/he might have noticed if s/he hadn't been so absorbed in affecting nonchalance.

Walking down the street one day, I saw a little guy wear a snug-fitting army jacket with the collar turned up, tight jeans, running shoes. He had a bit of a duck tail, if curly hair can be duck-tailed. With hands in his jean pockets, he swaggered! I swear the little guy was no more than ten-years-old.

And then there was the man I fell in love with. He was in a restaurant with two young boys. His sons maybe. He looked familiar. I kept staring at him, trying to decide if he's someone I used to work with, or if he's a TV anchor, now older. He's that well-groomed and handsome. Then he started to stare back. I know it's because I was staring at him and he was staring back to figure out why I was staring. It was very distracting and I could barely stay tuned to conversations with my companions. I decided I didn't know this man and I stared at him only because he was good looking.