There is a certain peace, walking the streets at night, that cannot be attained when it is light. Every passerby is more diffuse and vague, head down yet wary. Footsteps in the silence of streetlights.
The illuminated window beckons. I answer the call. The pretend peoples in their fancy new clothes pose with a distant glaze. I am fascinated by the sheer irony of these that never move, never sway and that endure the stares of so many who are so strange.
I walk into the closed store, grab a chair and proceed to the window. Its very quiet here, behind the glass. I examine the mannequins up close and personal. The tall one, I'll call her Veronica, Ronnie, for short, looks like she has been here for awhile. Dust has settled on her plastic hair and outstretched hand...her outstretched hand...looks faded, worn, almost fragile at this close view. Hmm, not as real and true as I would have thought. I can see now, that it is definitely, definitely fake.
I wonder how long she has been like that...forced to pretend that she wants, that she can help.
How has she been able to deal with all the gazes and gawkers? Does it bother her that others see only what she is on the outside? Only that which she can give away for a price...is for sale.
I sit down. Its been a long day of walking the streets, hiding in subtle corners, trying to be part of the scenery, waiting for the darkness to become real and free. Even here, in the openeness where all can see...there is no one to look or stare.
