Musings At Sunset, On Seashore

Does he notice? I scribble, gripping my writer’s notebook with the steady grip that I can only manage when on vacation. I write about the way he stands, face to the incoming sea breeze, shoes to the salt water, not stepping back or caring. Nor should I care: I write about the fact that I do not care. I write about the plaid flannel shirt, the bowtie shaped like a fish, the shoes so soaked now they might as well be fish too. I am writing out of scientific interest; I am the objective observer, the being who puts no feelings to things, no personal engagements. Adding to my observations, I notice gleaming rings, high hair, a look of contentment, or perhaps concentration. I am concentrating as well; science requires it– until that glassy screen separating the observer from the observed is broken by a left turn of the high-haired head whose eyes meet my own.