Forty-Five and Counting

So good morning all, Trump won. Let’s hope for the best. And today I’m sitting at a costa coffee, in a mall in Poland, watching as dozens of people walk past, some racing, others stomping and the last few meandering in a lazy stroll. It’s snowing outside, and I love the snow. I hear at least three different languages around me, though I have no idea what is being said. To my right are two girls, who can’t be more than twenty, speaking in Arabic. One has very full lips jutting out in a pout regardless of what sounds her mouth has to form. Even in her calm, restful, listening stance, her lips are slightly perched open. Her fingers twist and twirl through a lock of her shoulder length copper hair, and her blue contact lenses stand out a little too far from her eyeballs to be convincing. Her companion is covered from head to toe, wearing long jeans, a grey, bright neon yellow and beige sweater, and a white head shawl. She has very very pale hands that seem all the more pale when seen against the knit of her jersey. She is wearing ultramarine blue rimmed glasses, which really suit her. She is beautiful, though most would say her friend is the fairer of the two. Some baby hair curls out by her left ear, having slipped from its place hidden behind her white shawl, and she keeps crossing her arms protectively over her chest. Her friend is the slimmer of the pair, though she has sides suited well for belly dancing, which she shows through her crop top. The two talk with intimacy, a conflicting image of a diverse culture.

On the table almost in front of my own sit three tall girls in shawls and puffy jackets, protection from the snow despite the heating in this mall. They might be students from Eritrea or Namibia or some other African country here to visit, and I feel proud and happy for them. In the table next to theirs sit an old couple of Poles whose skin has gone red from the sun and who talk with hushed voices, enjoying their morning outing. The man’s hair is fully white, and swirls around from layers of gel. The woman has platinum hair, barely tinted, cropped short in a bob. Their hands are wrinkled, deep creases striking shadows against the palest of white. And now I’m out of time! I managed to not write for my book this morning (again) and hope that I’d maybe maybe have a chance to write tonight, but this mornings news threw me off so I was much more in the mood for artistic expression and observation than fantasy creation. I hear so much from my friends considering what the future holds for our world – hopes for destruction or for something else, though no one knows what. I just hope the world keeps ticking on, with all its contrasts and light and shadows, and there are still people out there that see the beauty in wrinkled old hands.

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