I felt like I was intruding. They were so intimate, personal, private.
But we were on the metro, and they stuck out like a sore thumb, him with his fire-coloured mohawk and her with her blue pigtails. She'd shaved the lower half of her head, though one almost didn't notice because of the blue pigtails that dominated her person. He was tall and skinny, she short and plump. Their eccentric colours drew the eye.
Yet, there they were, talking, embracing, whispering. So personal. A giggle, a twinkle of the eye, a kiss on the lips. Like they didn't know that they were magnets to the eye, as though they didn't notice that they had an audience.
We all dismounted at Atwater, and I watched them climb the stairs. Both wearing army boots, his classic, hers funky and patterned. Her short black skirt over pants, her shoes, all dwarfed by the hair. He wore a t-shirt, baggy army-inspired pants and the black army boots. His hair was faded out to be lightest at the tip, really as though he had a flame on his head. His silver wired frame glasses didn't fit his image.
Hand in hand, they walked in and out of my life. Blue and orange, their heads together. They were unmistakable and unmissable. No one would fail to see them, but I think that most would overlook them.
Something about this moment struck me. I wonder what they're like.