She was wearing a soft blue top, a thin material form fitted to her lithe, adolescent body, the front being low cut with a lacy edge which revealed the budding potential of breasts promising to bloom later, perhaps in time for the new school term in September. Nevertheless she was proud of them already, watching herself at various angles as she passed the New and Used, the produce shop and the barbers. Lingered again before the little bakery, tugged at her top, pulling it down to expose more of the porcelain skin on an untrammeled chest. Her jeans were wide bottomed, old, faded, blue, yet the long legs wore them well. Someday she would be tall. The shoes were either a beige suede or scuffed leather, I couldn't see them well enough to know for sure. Her attire was dissimilar, as though they were all hand-me-downs, yet the narcissistic young maid seemed to carry a style that was not restrained by mere clothing. She might someday grow into a unique and alluring personality. Where one's interest was lured magnetically to the inner person. Another glint of ancient memory like a crack of light beneath a door.

She spied something across the street and veered, now walking quickly toward the new cappuccino bar with her arms behind her, hands clasped at her waist, twirling the rose absently, displaying the fresh bumps she was so enamored of. Her dark hair swept back from her head into a pony tail accented a bone structure already losing the child's face and forming that woman of tomorrow. What romantic adventures were detained in that dreamy girl-mind? She was too young to have ambitious plans. Or was she? I lost sight of her for a few moments, content to sip my bittersweet drink and languish in the wanderings of approaching evening and slipping age. Contemplating youth and how it progresses with such fraudulent stealth into a lifetime, even on a quiet street with little movement.

Yes. There it is, appearing as a watercolor memory even though I try not to paint that picture too often. At fifteen myself, I had been attracted to such a girl-woman. Sexual interest at first. Of course. But after a glimpse of her inner character my carnal pomposity was deflated and became the admiration of something known to be better. That girl was already above the advancings of a puerile teenaged boy. And when she allowed some of that maturity to escape, which defied her youthful package, it deflected my juvenile behavior. We became lifelong companions. Lifelong. This meandering miss brimmed with a similar quality.

She might someday, if she survived her precarious second decade, have a choice. Of international men with money and power. Yes, and lovers and toys too when she arrived. And arrive she would. I already knew this person from that hidden alcove in time. She may also find a love that transcends the materiality of life and leads her through placid decades without mishap or ill fortune. Some are lucky that way. Some are unlucky that way. Suddenly the girl was striding back to the opposite side of the street again, crossing my line of sight, swinging her arms with boldness, perhaps having got the reluctant approval of older males in the cafe. The rose was now tucked into her belt with elegance, as though it was a trendy, vogue, New York thing to do. Her walk was confidant, adult. I could see her face better now. No garish dash of lipstick, only a touch of pink, as though she had brushed the rose to her lips for its color. No artificially shaded cheeks. Only a demure blush that spoke of her innocence. She had no need of altering her appearance. Those naturally dark eyes met mine an instant, but it was as though my presence was like a bird on a branch, I had so little effect.

Who is the more anguished? The traveler leaving on the train? Or the one who remains behind on the platform?

I resolved to plant a pink rose here for next year.