Mary

Mary stands on the sidewalk with her hand behind her back. Smoke curls around her side and up to her mouth as she moves her cigarette.

She sees me, looks down and quickly hides her hand behind her back. We don’t know one another. I only know her place on the sidewalk as I walk past. It is on this spot where, on summer days, she stares across the grass while I imagine that this is her best and worst moment. 

But who am I to write about Mary, a made up name for someone I think about sometimes.