I looked at her more closely now.
For the first time, really. The little square cafe table
was all that was between us and she sat with her side to it,
her arm on the table and one leg crossed over the other. Not
slouched but easy in the hard straight-backed chair.
It was an easiness, a relaxation, an openness, essentially, which had
ever escaped me. It was a subtle thing, a statement and a merging with
one's milieu which I could do no more than recognize.
Shy people did not possess it.
Defensive people did not possess it.
Angry people did not, nor did the evil.
If she was not one of these, who was she?
I noticed she had a small blue-rimmed espresso cup by her hand.
She wore a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled loosely to the
elbows and brown pants stuffed into tall brown leather boots.
Sun had moved to touch a portion of her hair, and coppery lights were
struck from its thick darkness. She had it caught back by something
casual and unobtrusive, something which held it loosely at her nape but
let it wave back from her face. Her nose was straight, her eyes were gray,
very dark.
She was just sitting there looking at me looking at her. Waiting, it
seemed, while I dissected and assessed her in my own extremely
prejudicial terms. She did not appear to be the slightest bit discomfited.
"What's your name?" It was out before I thought about it, almost before
I had thought it.
"Adonie," she said.
I scowled. I never asked questions like that. I never asked people....To
mask my impatience at myself I moved quickly onto her words. "What
kind of a name is that?"
"Mine."
She didn't say anything more. No apology, no defense, no nervous
yabbling about it. Just the clear statement.