The brain in the wind
She's gesticulating, that's what catches my attention. My first reflex is to assess how dangerous she is and the threat she poses to my peace of mind.
I quickly notice that she seems to be in something of a trance. Her movements are slow; she speaks only to herself, and mostly in silence.
I assume she's out of danger and won't throw herself onto the metro tracks.
So I sit down and pull my book from the large pocket of my coat. The earbuds in my ears play the kind of music I like: calm, without lyrics or any real melody.
But I can't concentrate. The woman keeps making broad gestures, lost in her inner monologue. I can watch her: she doesn't notice me, gazing upward instead, then to the right, to the left, downward, taking a step to the side, then forward, flinging an arm into the air, holding it there for a few moments, then letting it drop limply, appearing to ask herself deep questions, pouting, never laughing.
She isn't poorly dressed and doesn't seem to be under the influence of any drugs. Her expressions are sad; her emaciated face is nothing but suffering in my eyes. I tell myself that her gestures betray a long history of constraints, of misfortunes, no doubt of abuse.
I don't want to pity her; I'm only trying to understand the cause of her unhappiness, if there is one. Perhaps I have it all wrong, perhaps this is simply a person born with limited mental faculties.
I catch myself immediately, because what I've just thought is probably worse than pity.
The music in my ears doesn't contradict her life; it skirts around it and almost gives it meaning. It's a strange sensation, spying like this on the transparency of a woman, brain in the wind, in flashy, nearly new espadrilles that don't match the rest of her clothes, which are more worn and far too big for her.
The train arrives. I make a point of not taking the same door as her. I nearly lose sight of her, as the train is packed. She manages to slip into a seat mysteriously left vacant, while I remain standing at an angle, close to her.
Her gestures subside, the grimaces on her face soften; she pouts, then stirs again, stands up, passes in front of me, and is already getting off at the next station.
Where is she going? Does she have a real destination in mind? The train doors close. I move forward. I'm getting off at the next stop.
The music is calm in my head. I gaze at my reflection in the window. I'm a normal guy. My anxieties don't carry away my gestures.
