She walks across the grass, dragging her heavy feet: rollerblades. Ten minutes ago she was gliding, looping around me (and the park) in great rings, smooth and quiet. She’s streamlined: black leggings, black vest top, shaved head; she looks like someone you see in the background of an indie film, too cool for real life. Yet here she is, lying smack in the middle of the green, scrolling through her phone, untouched by the breeze.
Her rollerbladed feet cross at the ankles as if it’s the most comfortable thing in the world, as if they’re not heavy at all. And that brazen pink strip of sports bra, stark against the black of skin and cloth, is everything. It is an island of extraordinary in the ordinary, and so is she.