Rudie wore long socks but not because of creeping winter cold, but because she like the way the knit hugged her ankles, then her knees. She walked in a sullen skip, dragging her toes like getting from here to there was the last thing on her list to do for the day. She mumbled notes, flip flopping of her tounge, syllables of district crystal melodies. When she was nervous she rubbed her nose, and then her belly in long circular strokes. When she was embarrassed she would bend over and fix her socks, which was fine and dandy in train stations and viewings of romantic comedies, but not so much during job interviews. She loved the smell of cotton candy as it spinned with static electricity and she'd stand nearer then most next to vendor wagons.
I watched her, like I was a PI, hoodie up strings pulled tight. She laughed like heehawdeeha and looked in Peterson Gallery's window studiously as she passed every day around three. I stared back past that window, into searching eyes- hoping they would find mine. I edged around the corner of my desk and made loud hand gestures, as if fixing the balance of a frame on a nail was a lyrical dance. She only stared at a sculpture from Bugote, a torso with youthful round bosoms, molded with sienna clay, and wrapped hastily with chicken wire. Brushed abstractly with water colors, nearly translucent pigments weaved to create a shoulder to hip ribboned badge. At 3:10 she would check her watch with obligation, a wave of annoyance twisting her once placid expression, and pull up one sock then the other. She would then abruptly step away with out saying goodbye to Torso or I, studying the translucence of rain drops on her exposed arms.
