Not what they seem
A bespectacled bag boy nervously folding a piece of
paper.
A old man gazing at him with intent.
I watch both, writing imaginary biographies in my
head.
The boy, I write, is not what he seems. Look at the
trembling in his hands as he folds the crisp sheet,
the dab of nail polish on the tips of the cuticles,
beautiful buffed into a sensuous curve.
"He" is not a boy at all, but a young girl in
disguise.
A runaway? I look up at the thought and watch as the
old man rises halfway before Father Time, with a flash
of pain, reminds him of his thinning thread.
"How's the plane, Mallory?" he gasps. The "bag boy",
now an unfashionable dressed girl, smiles at the man.
She holds up the paper airplane.
"All finished, grandpa."
