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Random Acts of Kindness
(This kind of fell out of my mind, randomly.)
She seemed to have a way about her, picking oranges out of the sun-spilling bin by some random process he couldn't figure out, as though she had an inside tip on the best citrus to come up their way from points south; she had a mass of red curls that fell across her shoulders, over the too-large army jacket and down to the middle of her back. Her eyes were the shade of aqua that only grew in contact lenses; she carried one of those plasticised shopping bags over her arm like the old ladies down in Chinatown, the ones you can buy at Honest Ed's for a buck and get change back, and completely ignored the incongruity of it all as she danced through the fruit stand with impossible grace.
He dumbly tossed a few apples into a plastic bag and threw a heavy coin or two on the counter, ducking the glare of the sharp-eyed Korean grocer who had intently noticed his loitering. Deciding to abandon his change to the four winds - paying it forward, perhaps? - he followed her out the door and down Bloor Street, weaving through the heavy flow of tourists and college students that spilled over from the nearby artery of Spadina Avenue.
He had really no idea where he was going, of course, or why, but he was going, anyway - caught in the tides of traffic, searching after her red hair which bobbed gently as she walked. She always seemed to be looking up at something - clouds? buildings? dreams? The question burned on his lips unasked.
Caught up in his speculation, he nearly knocked her over; she had stopped near a homeless woman on the corner wrapped in a rotting grey blanket. With a smile, she took one of the oranges from the bag, knelt down, pressed the fruit into a gnarled, liver-spotted hand.
"Bless you, my child." the woman replied in a grating voice. She murmured something he couldn't hear and turned, knocking into him and sending the bag of oranges scattering and trailing down the rippled grey sidewalk; he dodged and herded them back in, using long-forgotten skills picked up on a Sunday driveway in Etobicoke with remarkably similar orange balls.
"Thank you." she whispered, vanishing into the subway station like smoke.
She seemed to have a way about her, picking oranges out of the sun-spilling bin by some random process he couldn't figure out, as though she had an inside tip on the best citrus to come up their way from points south; she had a mass of red curls that fell across her shoulders, over the too-large army jacket and down to the middle of her back. Her eyes were the shade of aqua that only grew in contact lenses; she carried one of those plasticised shopping bags over her arm like the old ladies down in Chinatown, the ones you can buy at Honest Ed's for a buck and get change back, and completely ignored the incongruity of it all as she danced through the fruit stand with impossible grace.
He dumbly tossed a few apples into a plastic bag and threw a heavy coin or two on the counter, ducking the glare of the sharp-eyed Korean grocer who had intently noticed his loitering. Deciding to abandon his change to the four winds - paying it forward, perhaps? - he followed her out the door and down Bloor Street, weaving through the heavy flow of tourists and college students that spilled over from the nearby artery of Spadina Avenue.
He had really no idea where he was going, of course, or why, but he was going, anyway - caught in the tides of traffic, searching after her red hair which bobbed gently as she walked. She always seemed to be looking up at something - clouds? buildings? dreams? The question burned on his lips unasked.
Caught up in his speculation, he nearly knocked her over; she had stopped near a homeless woman on the corner wrapped in a rotting grey blanket. With a smile, she took one of the oranges from the bag, knelt down, pressed the fruit into a gnarled, liver-spotted hand.
"Bless you, my child." the woman replied in a grating voice. She murmured something he couldn't hear and turned, knocking into him and sending the bag of oranges scattering and trailing down the rippled grey sidewalk; he dodged and herded them back in, using long-forgotten skills picked up on a Sunday driveway in Etobicoke with remarkably similar orange balls.
"Thank you." she whispered, vanishing into the subway station like smoke.
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I'm in downtown Portland. SW.
I'd like to befriend you. In real life I mean.
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I'm going to go check out those LJ groups you mentioned. :)