The Girl in the Gray Sweatshirt Read Free

and the frame of her glasses. I’d love to
    know what titles she bought and talk about science
    fiction over coffee, but that can’t happen. Even when I
    final y get to talk to her, she’l be confused and scared.
    Once she understands the kind of person I am, she’ll
    probably hate me. So this sunny October day is a
    microcosm for the two of us. Right now she has no
    idea that I exist but making her happy makes me
    happy. Today, I don’t feel so alone.
    I repeat this at a comic shop, where she picks out a
    Highlander button, and again when a woman’s sel ing
    handmade jewelry out of the trunk of her car,
    probably illegally. But my girl won’t take anything.
    Damn, seems like I miscalculated. So after she moves
    on, I pick a necklace and thank the woman for trying.
    Toward sunset, the girl in the gray sweatshirt heads for
    the park. The sky is burnished over the buildings and
    the breeze is cool. I sit down near the fountain, where
    I can see her easily. She’s reading one of the books I
    bought for her, a pulpy-looking paperback. I can’t
    make out the title. Nearby I spot a hot dog vendor
    packing it in and circle toward the cart.
    “Could you do me a favor?” I ask.
    The guy seems tired, not particularly eager to
    participate in my scenario. “What is it?”
    “I’d like to surprise my friend over there. Would you
    give her a hot dog if I pay for it?”
    “Oh. Sure.” He perks up at the prospect of another
    sale. “But… what should I tel her if she asks why she’s
    getting free food?”
    “Tell her… that you’d like to see her smile.”
    The hot dog guy, who’s at least fifty, raises a brow.
    “Heh, I don’t think so. That might work for you, pal,
    but if I try it, she’ll scream bloody murder.”
    I chuckle wryly. “Okay, maybe not. Tell her whatever
    you want, just don’t mention me.”
    “Deal. What should I put on it?”
    As I hand over the money, I answer, “Mustard,
    ketchup, relish. In that order, no onions.”
    “Sounds like you know her pretty well. Take care, kid.”
    With that the vendor fixes the hot dog, then walks
    over to the bench.
    She straightens in surprise, but he seems to be
    working the paternal angle. Here you go, kid. Dinner’s
    on the house.
    Whatever he says, it works because she takes the
    snack. Casual y I maneuver until I can see her face.
    And… she’s beaming. I’m riveted, unable to look away.
    God, you have a nice smile. Her teeth are straight and
    white, her cheeks soft and round. Her eyes as she
    thanks the vendor are a warm brown. I’ve seen topaz
    in just that color. The wind blows her hair back, and
    she tips her chin up for a few seconds, hot dog in hand.
    The move says, Right now, I’m happy. My chest is so
    tight I can hardly breathe. I’d give a lot if she’d look at
    me, just for a moment. But she takes a few bites, eyes
    on the ground again. Pigeons waddle at her feet, so it
    seems like they’re begging. She breaks off a piece of
    the bun, crumbles and scatters it.
    This is the closest I’ve ever been to her, so I actually
    hear her voice, sweet, soft and low, when she tel s the
    birds, “Huh. This was the best day ever.” Musing,
    incredulous tone.
    For me too, I say silently. It’s a vain wish but I can’t
    help adding, Wait for me, Edie Kramer. Wait for me.
    k`12