There is a haze in the place where I stand to the untrained eye. I’m a glimmer. I’m the slight movement in the corner of their eyes. I’m nothing to them but empty, unsuspecting space, yet they’re naïve to think that I’m simply innocent.
Hands are cupped around whispered words. They say sweet nothings, desperate pleas, and shredded gossip. I’m there, listening to teary eyed girls and snickering males. Secret words reach my undetectable ears. This is one of the perks of being invisible.
I sit watching and waiting. Blurry people rush by me. They don’t see me there, sitting and watching. Watching is the game for the person with the unanticipated lucky hand in the poker game. On and on they walk past with their busy lives and souls tattooed with things unspoken. With my ghostly hands, I reach into them and pull out the oozing mess of their humanity. I know their secrets, their shame, and their joy. I’m sitting and waiting for them to know mine.
The game of watching is tiring. I join the flow of bodies all rushing to the unseen destination. It takes me to a street where cars honk as we scurry by. I stop. I stand still while the other moves around me. I’m an invisible obstacle. See me, my insides hum. Someone, please. I step out into the street where a yellow cab is barreling down the road. They won’t stop. Why should they for someone that’s not really there?
The breaks screech as tires skid across pavement. A car chatters to a stop. A face, red and round, pushes out of the car window. “Aye! What are you doing? Get out of the road!”
I’m not invisible.
Really, I never was.