That Smile by Me © Copyright 2000 That smile! I must glance away for an instant, like when you accidentally look directly into the sun and are dazzled, but then I look back at her. What makes her so glad? I stop briefly at a newspaper machine and buy a paper, trying to be subtle about this, then I reverse direction to follow her - yes, I know it is foolish, and maybe even illegal, but I am really curious about her. People just don't usually walk the street with blatant happiness painted on their faces like an ad for a tropical cruise. There is a bounce in her step, like there are springs in the heels of her Nike's. She is humming something but I can't make out the tune - and if I can hear her humming and can tell the brand of her shoes, then I should drop back a bit; I don't want her to notice me because it would probably disturb her mood, and depending on her sense of humor, perhaps mine, too. She is crossing the street, against the light! I must run to keep from loosing sight of her in the crowd. A car almost hits me! My heart is pounding, from the exertion as much as the fright, and maybe even a little from excitement. Beads of sweat sting my eyes, but I still see her as she reaches down to pet a friendly stray cat. I try to imagine where she is going. Probably to meet someone, a friend, likely. I bet she has an assignation with someone she feels very special about. Where did she go? She was just ahead and now she is gone! I rush to the next corner and, there she is, just a few feet away, looking into a store window. I stop and try to seem not to notice her. She is holding her peasant skirt out by the tips of her fingers, turning slightly, first one way, then the other, now she is holding her hands, cupping them sort of, between her breasts. Her nails are beautifully manicured, long and fire-engine-red, to match her lipstick. She is looking at herself in the window reflection, still beaming, and now she continues on her way. She skips once, twice, then continues to walk as she has been, bouncing along, going from one side of the walkway to the other, looking at everything along the way, often laughing at some private thought. I stop briefly at the window where she stopped. It displays formal wear. The mannequin is wearing a long, plain, long sleeve black dress with a small white flower at the bottom of the V of the plunging neck line. A simple strand of pearls circles its throat; they look real. The mannequin has no shoes; they dress them like that sometimes, just leave them barefoot. I continue, not to lose her again. I imagine the lover she is going to meet. He is an artist, a painter, probably, sensitive to her needs, paints deeply meaningful works which do not sell very well, but he makes enough to afford a spartan loft apartment with a well lit room he uses as a studio. Or maybe he is an actor; same apartment but his studio has no windows and is painted all black inside and has props he has gathered over the years. He specializes in Shakespeare. There is very little work in Shakespeare, but he loves it and so it is fulfilling. We are walking past an Italian sidewalk cafe. The odors of tomato sauces and cheeses and garlic floating out remind me of the breakfast I missed this morning, and that it is now lunch time. I am starting to think of us as if we are walking together, and she is in the lead; interesting. This street leads out across the overpass which crosses the canyon. We call it a canyon but actually it is a ravine about 100 feet deep and with a railroad right-of-way running through it, but it is beautiful with its sheer walls and colorful layers of earth and stone. Local people come here to see the canyon and sometimes there are tourists. Now she is bouncing out along the sidewalk on the bridge across the canyon. I can hear her humming again, so again I pause along the railing to let her get a bit more ahead; there are fewer people out here on the bridge and I still don't want her to notice me. About halfway across the bridge she stops and turns to the railing, rests her elbows on it, and her chin in her palms, and seems to be just enjoying the view. I do similarly, but surreptitiously observe her from the corner of my eye, still trying to look ordinary. A few people are walking by us, going both directions. No one seems to notice us, or care. I am still intrigued about her, maybe even more so. Maybe her lover is a wealthy man, able to offer her all manner of material things, but he is still a kind, loving person. Or, what if her lover is another woman? Now, why did I think of that? But it could be. She turns toward me. She has spotted me! No, now she turns the other way. There is no one else on the bridge now, but I am far enough away that she probably will not think anything of me. She is putting her left foot on the railing, pulling herself up onto the railing. The railing is too thin for her to stand on and maintain her balance! She will fall! It is 100 feet down, or more! I start to say something, to shout at her to come down, but my throat does not operate. Then I notice she is leaning out, away from the bridge. I begin to run toward her but it is like in a movie, where the violence is in the slowest of motion. My feet hit the sidewalk about once every four seconds, it seems, and I am much to far away to catch her if she falls. She is still smiling with that joyous face. Her arms are out, as if to fly away. Her loose skirt and blouse catch the wind. For a moment I think that she will fly away, but then I see she is slowly drifting down, to the bottom of the canyon. At this speed she cannot hurt herself even if she hits the bottom. She does one somersault on the way down and I can see her face, still brilliantly smiling, but there seems to be a peace about her too, now, which I did not notice before. Then it is over. I wanted to know about her joy, about what could delight her so. Now I know.