The girl in front of me hasn’t looked up from her phone for
10 blocks. Literally not looked up once. Not while crossing the street. Not
while weaving in between crowds in the crosswalk. Normally I hate people who go
through life with their faces fused to a screen, but this is kind of
impressive.
She looks like she works in fashion. You can always tell
those types. There’s something noticeably superficial about them, but not in a
bad way. They craft their appearance. Everyday. Even on Sundays. It’s part of
their job, and I respect that. I find it hard enough to find a pair pants that
don’t smell like fish.
She’s still going. Keeping her streak alive, god bless her.
Now we’re at 5th ave. This is going to be a tough
one. There she goes.
Fuck me, this girls a pro.
She deserves a medal. She deserves to be put atop a wooden
pedestal while her ringtone blares throughout the speakers in the stadium. The
crowd on their feet, hats removed, fighting back tears. This is a truly special
moment. I’m witnessing a god given talent being put to use. She’s…
Fuck. Fuck, oh, shit.
Fucking ouch. Oh. God damn.
She never saw that bike messenger coming, and neither did I.
I was too transfixed on the miracle unfolding before me. She got up. She’s all
right. That had to have hurt, but
it was beautiful to watch.
An explosion of iced coffee, blond hair, and bicycle chains.
A modern day cheetah and impala.
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