Vurgine

Vurgine was pressed against a wall glancing around the corner when I first saw her. It can take a lot of nerve for me to talk to people, some times I keep on walking, telling my legs to slow down, growling at my feet to stop, an opportunity often lost with in minutes. This time, 3 blocks past her, all limbs n logs finally listened and I circled back to find her again. She was still there, watching; waiting for the kitchens of the fancy restaurant she was leaning against to open. I gave her the $10 I had in my pocket and she shrugged saying it probably wouldn’t be enough to get her a meal there. She was happy when I told her I liked her tattoos, a coquettish smile, a twinkle. I would like to have asked her about each one, the story of how and why they got there but she was antsy, looking, waiting. No room for much talking. The stories that might have been sitting down crossed legged waiting to speak left the circle, at least the ones that could. The others, the ones that changed her life, that embedded themselves into who she is today and cannot leave, crept into the photos, stories that are perhaps too hard to communicate in any other way.